Die, My Darling
by enRAGEd
Summary: A story of lust and obsession between a tall, blond sociopath and a short, fat redhead. The ultimate pairing of Shak x Wesker gets a new tribute for Shakahnna's Deviant Art contest courtesy of her biggest fan, me.
1. Episode One Point One

**Episode One Point One: Should Have Seen This Coming On**

For many years the Umbrella Corporation has been the world's largest supplier of pharmaceutical products. As well as being the leading brand in the field of medicines and medical equipment, they are also a strong presence in the electronics and armaments industry, providing goods and services, as well as employment, on an international scale. Despite its thriving legitimate enterprises, however, the conglomerate derives much of its capital from less tasteful endeavours, such as illegal research into biological weapons for various nations and wealthy groups the world over. With its attempts at perfecting the Tyrant virus, a mutagenic compound capable of transforming men into living Gods, this multi-million dollar company stands divided. Some wish only to solidify and strengthen their own power, while others seek to create the next step in man's evolutionary journey. Unbeknownst to the general public, the power struggles within the organisation have affected some of the most profound disasters in living memory, and it is likely that yet more lives will be lost before these conflicts have reached their resolution.

During the year 1998, a viral outbreak at the facility located in the Arklay district earned the attention of the local community's S.T.A.R.S unit, a group belonging to an agency initially formed for the express purpose of combating cult terrorism. The team became aware of the Tyrant virus and its effect on the unprepared human test subject; an infected individual would decay at an accelerated level and would operate solely on the impulse of hunger for living flesh. Decimated by the creatures they had discovered and betrayed by their Captain, an agent of Umbrella, they attempted to warn the unwitting people of the corporation's clandestine activities. At first discredited to an unknowing public, months later their initial fears became realised, and the nearby burgeoning metropolis known as Raccoon City was contaminated. Through the interference of bribed public officials it was not long before the situation raged out of control and the government stepped in to circumvent a nationwide disaster by quarantining the area. After several weeks, with the state within the cordon declining constantly, the President and his staff elected to sterilise the zones afflicted with the virus. The citizens that were not already dead perished in the systematic aerial bombardment that destroyed the city utterly.

In the aftermath of the disaster, all information pertaining to the mysterious plague that had been allowed to spread unchecked throughout the growing community was confiscated by various government agencies or by Umbrella itself in an effort to conceal the truth. The survivors of the catastrophe either went into hiding or were secretly executed by the corporation in order to ensure their silence. Around this time, a domestic terrorist group arose composed of the surviving S.T.A.R.S members, attempting to bring the company's transgressions to light. Due to the negative publicity garnered by the renegade organisation, the law enforcement agency of the same name was disbanded at the behest of a distrustful public. Some months later, the band of Raccoon City escapees disappeared without a trace.

In 2005, an inquest into the events surrounding the 1998 disaster revealed that the conglomerate, Sun Enterprises, one of Umbrella's competitors, had been responsible for the events that had transpired in the Arklay district. Essentially playing the scapegoat for the creators of the T-virus, Sun was forced out of business. With their demise, however, came further outbreaks and it wasn't long before the people of America were constantly besieged by the sickness that turned humans into the living dead. Countless thousands lost their lives, and many more were reanimated to become part of the roaming cavalcade of zombies. Furthermore, with the artificial contaminant having come to be public knowledge, the corporation was free to continue their experimentation without the need for secrecy.

In the year 2010, a privately-sponsored investigation organised by the President of the United States and carried out by a clandestine group known as V.O.I.C.E, or the Viral Outbreak Investigation and Containment Effort, produced new information regarding the Umbrella Corporation's involvement in the Raccoon disaster. Reasoning that opposing the corrupt conglomerate on the public stage was tantamount to suicide, particularly considering their power in the fractured society that was modern day America, S.T.A.R.S was resurrected as a task force to perform acts of government-sanctioned terrorism against them. Aided by an unknown benefactor within the company, the head of the crippled nation embarked on a clandestine and personal war against the organisation responsible for inconceivable damage to his country and the world.

* * *

The lobby of the Umbrella Corporation's largest administrative complex in the country was a luxuriously decorated chamber that exuded a sense of unattainable wealth, almost suggesting that even the people who circulated within were not rich enough to dwell inside. A reception desk managed by two formally dressed men stood before two elevators, and was flanked by a pair of sweeping, curved staircases that ended in a balcony which composed the second floor of the hall. There were further doors that led to various other parts of the ground level secreted behind the stairs so as not to disturb the otherwise perfect, self-centred indulgence of those who only ever entered the area in order to use the lifts. The entire room had an autumnal theme, decorated in reds, golds and subtle browns that would have been warm and inviting if not for the strong sense of inferiority it instilled. On this particular evening, the building was receiving a notably important member of the company's upper echelon, and so the main entrance was patrolled by various heavily armed and armoured security personnel, giving the impression that the tower was busier than it normally was at this time of night. It stood in stark contrast to the street beyond the glass and steel façade, which was devoid of life at this late hour, even in a city that was yet to feel the brunt of the wandering zombie menace.

Despite the habits of most citizens of modern America to be safely at home before dark, most of the lobby's occupants were not suspicious at the presence of a non-descript black Transit on the road just past the empty courtyard between there and the building. Most were so concerned with thoughts of their own boredom that they didn't even notice that the van turned to reverse across the concrete plateau towards the entrance at a rapid pace, and were only made aware of its presence when its rear ploughed into the front doors, exploding through in a shower of glass and fractured metal framing. The majority of the security personnel patrolling the hall dove to the floor in an attempt to avoid both the shower of sharp fragments and the oncoming vehicle. Before it had even rolled to a stop, however, the back doors were thrown open and a figure clad in navy blue fatigues and black tactical equipment hopped out, closely followed by five other figures in similar uniforms.

At the head of the column, Lieutenant Shakahnna Morgan stood as a decidedly stout testament to the nature of the reformed S.T.A.R.S organisation. With her flame red hair tied back in a simple ponytail, the unmistakable sparkle of gleeful anticipation resided in her green eyes, perfectly complimenting the broad grin plastered across her rounded features. Spreading her arms, the four blades affixed to each of her gloved hands gleamed in the brightly lit foyer's interior. Attached to her belt was a line of grenades interrupted on either side of her waist by holsters for her matching Colt .45 semi-automatic pistols, these weapons mere toys in comparison to the Desert Eagle strapped beneath her left arm. It was clear from how comfortable she seemed with her cat claws, however, that she did not favour ranged combat or the use of firearms when there was an opportunity for violence in a close proximity.

With an almost mirthful abandon, the soldier advanced on a downed security guard who was beginning to clamber to his feet, and nonchalantly thrust the tempered knives that acted as an extension of her hand into the top of his head. As he slumped to hang limply from the implements impaling his skull, she wasted no time in placing a foot to his shoulder and pushing him backwards to free her weapon. With bright eyes she scanned the area for her next target, the warm smile on her face an incredibly disconcerting factor considering that she had just fatally lobotomised another human being. Springing forward, she slashed the wrist of a second man with her left set of blades as he raised his sub-machinegun to fire upon her, causing him to drop the firearm, before she spun on her heel and left a trail of deep gouges spurting crimson in his throat with a backhanded right stroke. Behind her, the remainder of her unit spread out from the Transit, providing her with covering fire against the Umbrella personnel who had been somewhat quicker on the uptake and had begun to shoot at the attackers from elevated positions on the staircases and balconies, even as her rampage achieved a comfortable pace.

Stepping quickly towards one of the dumbstruck guards, she locked her left arm around his right as he attempted to gun her down and rammed her claws through his side, paralysing him with shock. Almost as though she were dancing with him, she brought him around to protect herself from the bullets of his team mates with the flak jacket that he was wearing. With a flick of her right wrist, she opened four long gashes across another's throat, watching him slam to the floor choking as she twirled her unwitting partner headlong into a different soldier. With the heavily-bleeding body of one of his comrade's hanging limply in his arms, the fifth of her victims went pale with fright moments before she lunged forward and skewered him through the face, the blades burying themselves in his eyes before she allowed the couple to slump to the floor, leaving her former prop to bleed to death.

A sixth lunged for her in an attempt to grapple with her, only for her talons to slice the flesh of his forearms to ribbons as she hopped neatly out of his reach, before she thrust herself forward and rammed her forehead into his face to break his nose. As he recoiled, she darted forward and began to claw at his crotch with joyous abandon, ripping the area at the apex of his legs to shreds. She permitted him to slump to the ground, clutching at the bloody hole where his groin had once been, before pouncing with her full weight onto a further opponent, sinking her blades to the hilt in his stomach and eviscerating him gleefully as he hit the floor. Warm blood spattered her face as she looked up, her teeth still bared in a cross between a manic grin and a bloodthirsty snarl, despite the serene look in her eyes, clearly in her element and having the time of her life.

The skirmish between her partners and the opposing force came to an abrupt and bloody end as the combined fire of her unit filled the last remaining Umbrella employee with ragged holes, their honed marksmanship having already whittled away the hostile security personnel during the course of Shakahnna's rampage. The redhead, still crouched over her final victim, raised her head to survey the carnage that she and her fellow S.T.A.R.S members had wrought, noting with a degree of disappointment that there were no further targets for her. A subtle pout appeared on her lips, before she rose to her feet and her expression returned to her usual, steadfast smile. She eyed the twitching corpses of her former playmates with a degree of fondness, and appraised the hunched bodies of those that had died in the gun battle with an aim to evaluate the work of the others. It was with great pride that she noticed very few stray bullet holes, most of her team mates' shots having been directly on target. There was a wealth of affection in her for that group, not least because they provided her with covering fire so that she could enjoy her melee combat and not worry about being made dead. She casually hopped up onto the varnished surface of the circular reception desk and sat, swinging her feet back and forth as the rest formed a rough semi-circle nearby.

* * *

The group's leader and the redhead's direct superior, Captain Shawn Dresden, held his MP5 at a low-ready position as his team swiftly confirmed that there were no longer any enemies in the vicinity. With his strong build, hardened facial features and even temperament, the dark-haired male was every bit the commanding officer. He wore his uniform with some pride; as a career soldier he had been part of several organisations in the past and none had been as distinguished as the one he was currently a member of. Though it was admittedly a far cry from their roots in law enforcement, the agency itself was still pursuing a moral objective, particularly considering the corruption inherent in Umbrella and the crimes that it had perpetrated, though the oblivious public would likely not see it that way. It was unlikely that the former members of S.T.A.R.S would condone their actions either for that matter, but most of the current operatives were driven both by an inflamed sense of justice and personal revenge that had become indistinguishable from each other over time.

The Captain didn't like to pry into the affairs of his subordinates and so for the most part he left them to their own devices, except where it was necessary for him to know. The history of the soldier who went by the name of Kane Marshall, a compact, muscular man with nearly black hair, darkly ringed eyes and an almost perpetual scowl, was one that necessitated his attention, but which neither of them cared to comment on beyond their initial discourse. This was due mostly to the fact that the man in question was not a very pleasant individual, and as such even the group's commanding officer disliked having more than the minimum amount of contact with him. As the group readied itself for the second stage of their incursion, he leaned nonchalantly against the desk some feet from Shakahnna and folded his arms, giving the impression that he was already getting bored.

The other members of the unit were somewhat less guarded with their personal affairs, perhaps because there was nothing particularly interesting to say. Sage Burroughs, a rapidly greying, middle-aged man and the oldest soldier in the group, had been an operative with V.O.I.C.E, the agency behind the secret investigation that had brought Umbrella's chequered past to the government's knowledge, and had simply joined S.T.A.R.S through a sense of rational progression. Much like most of the reformed organisation's volunteers, he used an alias, though Dresden somewhat suspected that "Sage" was an old nickname, mainly because he had never known anyone as insufferably logical, and thus no one more worthy of the comparison to a mythical wise man.

Almost in complete contrast to the group's silver-haired tactical expert was the towering figure of Matthew Lewis, who was possibly one of the most thick-skulled people the Captain had ever had the pleasure to meet. He was an exceptionally good-natured fellow, but the fact remained that he was dense beyond belief. When not following orders from his commanding officer, he was obediently following his girlfriend, Amy Decker, around, which had been his reason for joining their organisation in the first place. Seeing the two side-by-side, with him being a giant of a man, tall and heavy-set, and her being a delicate and attractive female, one would be forgiven for thinking that they made an incredibly odd couple. However, between them they made an incredibly capable pairing; she possessed the necessary brains and beauty, while he had more than enough brawn to balance the equation. They were partners, which was why when the young woman had become a specialist with the organisation, her lumbering boyfriend had joined the ranks of the agents to work alongside her. All told, Dresden liked the both of them. She made an invaluable contribution to their group, and it paid to have a man his size around when someone needed threatening even if he wouldn't usually harm a fly, not to mention the fact that he made a fairly convincing jack when the Transit had a flat tyre.

The last member of the group was a fair-haired individual of average height and build by the name of Chris Carter, a relatively non-descript young man with tired blue eyes. He was the junior of the six soldiers and the latest recruit to the unit, though he had been with a different S.T.A.R.S team prior to joining the one under his supervision and had already proven himself to be an asset. Much like the Lieutenant, he was an upbeat human being who largely kept to himself insofar as his recent past was concerned. From what the Captain had seen thus far, he was capable and maintained at least a façade of professionalism, unlike the redhead's own rampantly sadistic behaviour during a mission. He seemed a perfectly ordinary person; quite the contrast to the eclectic bunch of misfits that their agency usually attracted and whom the leader had become accustomed to, but there were no conceivable problems if they achieved their objectives as planned.

With that in mind, he reached into one of the pockets on his flak jacket and withdrew a small, leather-bound notebook, to which was attached a metal ball-point pen for convenience's sake. Opening it on his left palm, he began to make notations on the most recent blank page with a practiced efficiency that came from doing just that several times during a mission. It was something of a ritual to be performed between stages of any operation.

"I daresay that welcome wagon was indicative of security at this building tonight," he commented, continuing to scribble as the rest of his group allowed themselves a moment of respite, "keep your wits about you; I don't want any mistakes. We'll move on shortly."

"Right," Kane grunted, fishing through the pouches attached to his vest and retrieving a cardboard carton from within, before flipping the top open and taking one of the cigarettes inside between his lips. Reaching back into his chest pocket, he produced a lighter and held the flame to the end casually. "Shak?" he asked, offering the packet to the Lieutenant.

"Nu uh, I'm cutting down," she informed him with a gracious nod, "but thankies anyway."

"Captain, is it really necessary to calculate a score every time we have a fire fight?" Sage queried, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free left hand as he waited, "we could conclude this operation much faster if we maintained our focus. It's hardly appropriate to turn this kind of work into a game, after all."

"Noted," the commanding officer responded, non-verbally counting the bodies slumped throughout the lobby with a trained eye and evidently not paying the older man much heed, "as usual. But I have no intention of becoming humourless any time soon. It isn't the most sensitive take on mass murder, I know, but better a joke than nothing but guilt."

"To each their own, I believe, is a popular expression," the greying man said flatly, leaving his superior to his own devices now that his objections had been made clear. The Captain shot him a thin smile.

"You always say that," Matt pointed out, his voice almost suggesting that this fact was somehow revelatory. This elicited a broader grin from the unit's leader, who was honestly amused by the simplicity of the larger male's mental processes.

"I add your score to this as well, Sage; if I didn't know better I'd swear you were just a sore loser," he said, to which the older man simply raised an eyebrow and looked away, unwilling to comment.

"What are you arguing about?" the blond recruit asked, eyeing the booklet as Dresden secreted it away on his person once more.

"Arguing suggests dissent, kid, I won't stand for insubordination or disrespect from anyone, against anyone," he asserted, quick to lay down the rules of engagement to prevent difficulties later on, "he was simply ensuring that we recognise his status as a conscientious objector to the game we play."

"Game?" he wondered aloud, "what game?"

"The brain child of the Lieutenant here," the dark-haired individual began, patting the outside of the pocket that contained the palm-sized journal, "the League Table. Essentially, for every zombie, armed civilian, security guard, hired gun, corporate soldier, B.O.W, scientist or executive you eliminate you will earn points proportionate to the importance of the target. Every point you earn is recorded in the book. I will admit that it isn't the most orthodox form of amusement, but it's what we do; any problems?"

"I'm not exactly Umbrella's biggest fan, I did join S.T.A.R.S after all," the youth explained, unable to keep the surprise he felt from widening his eyes, even if he wasn't going to express whatever deep ethical dilemma their insensitivity had provoked in him, "to be honest, I think these people have it coming for perpetuating this cycle of fear and death. And besides, we're killing them; I doubt making a note of that augments the sin considering how profound it is to begin with."

"Smart, but sin is subjective," the ebon-haired, brooding male presence stated bluntly, evidently not someone who apologised for things that he didn't consider himself to be guilty of, "as far as I'm concerned, we're just taking out the trash."

"Thank you for that, Kane," the group's authority figure said, before turning back to address the most recent addition to his unit, "most of us have seen enough of Umbrella's bullshit to ensure that we don't spare them a second thought when we're in the field, but in the three months that this agency has been operating, two of our members have insisted on being transferred to a different department. And since the organisation won't let us do our job without a minimum of six soldiers, I want to be sure that I'm not going to have to find a new one to take your place in a couple of weeks. So, how about it? Can we count on you?"

"Yes sir, I'm here to stay," Chris insisted, offering the Captain a salute, which was promptly returned in kind.

"Excellent, in that case, let me tell you about the two rules we have regarding the League Table," Dresden responded, as they both placed their hands back on their weapons, "primarily, we don't kill unarmed, innocent civilians, but I guess that one rather speaks for itself. Our aim is to destroy the corporation, and often the people who don't know what their employers are doing are as dangerous as the ones who know everything, but we aren't in the business of taking lives when it isn't a strictly necessary evil. If they don't mean anything to Umbrella then they don't mean anything to us. Just tell them to get a new job."

"Hear that, guys?" Kane asked darkly, banging his hand down twice on the veneered surface that he was leaning against, before shooting a glance down into the well that was created by its circular shape, glaring at the two smartly-dressed receptionists cowering below with a customary look of disdain, "might wanna start working on your resumes."

"Enough," the commanding officer told him, "its important to remember that though this is no longer a law enforcement agency, and our business is expressly revenge, we choose to exercise some discrimination in our choice of targets. As much of a cliché as this may be, we don't want to sink to their level."

"So what's the second rule?" the recruit asked, cocking his head slightly, to which the Lieutenant beamed broadly from her perch atop the reception desk.

"Castration earns double points because it's funny," she announced loudly, adjusting the straps on her bloodied cat's claws.

"Are you serious?" he queried, frowning deeply as he received nothing but the deadpan stares of the other team members and the redhead's gleeful nodding as his answer.

"Afraid not, son," the Captain confessed, turning his head to look at the manic Shakahnna who stopped grinning quite so widely, "anyway, as I already mentioned in the briefing, we don't normally raid administrative offices like this, but we have confirmed reports of a particularly high-ranking executive visiting the building tonight only. He falls within the upper echelon of Umbrella's managerial hierarchy and so the Lieutenant and I have seen fit to assign him the rare fifty point price tag. On top of that, we have reason to believe that there will be an Umbrella Special Forces entourage accompanying him, each worth fifteen, so this is a valuable opportunity for everyone here to improve their score."

"This might sound stupid, but what exactly does the highest scorer win?" the blond asked, shooting a further look at the sitting female, who promptly resumed her original expression, most likely in a bid to make him feel comfortable as part of the unit. Unfortunately, with her blood-spattered face, demonstrated penchant for castration and perpetual cheerfulness in spite of her rather brutal fighting style, she was perhaps not the best example of well-rounded, wholesome S.T.A.R.S member.

"If we score enough points then Umbrella goes tits up, of course," she informed him, hopping down from the desk, "that's a prize for everyone, right? Well, except the company itself, but who cares about them?"

"If that doesn't appeal then I'm fairly sure that I could find you something else to act as a suitable reward; I commissioned most of the Lieutenant's weaponry especially for that very reason," their superior added, "I should perhaps mention that the chances of you beating her score of eight hundred and fifty six are incredibly slim, however."

"I'll just have to make sure I shoot everyone in the nuts then, huh?" the youngest team member said, as the redhead sauntered past with an expression of supreme and unbridled self-satisfaction on her face.

"That's the spirit, toots," she congratulated, clapping him on the back and smiling. He decided not to draw attention to the effeminate term of endearment the female had tacked on to the end of her sentence.

"I suppose it's only fair to let you accompany her to the penthouse offices since you're starting from zero," the unit's leader pointed out, to which Chris nodded gratefully, though admittedly he seemed a little wary of the over-energetic second-in-command, "and since you're trailing by ten points now, Kane, you'll be the third member of the team. The rest of us will remain here and secure our exit."

"Shit, baby-sitting," the dark-eyed soldier muttered, flicking the smouldering stub of his cigarette to the floor and crushing it with his foot, before taking up his weapon and striding towards the elevator ahead of his assigned companions.

"Kane!" the commanding officer snapped, eliciting a dismissive wave from the left hand of the other man, casually retracting the statement. He was pursued by the group's latest recruit and its gleeful, flame-haired sadomasochist, who walked with a spring in her step.

The foremost of the three jabbed the lift's call button with his index finger and waited for it to descend as his two fellow team members stepped up behind him. He rapped his fingers on his weapon's grip as he stood before the metal doors, breathing a sigh of released tension as it came down to his level. Stepping in, he swung his firearm in an arc spanning the interior, searching for a target. Seeing that it was empty, however, he lowered his weapon and took a position resting casually against the wall with his arms folded. The others followed, the blond standing at the back of the elevator with his sub-machinegun at the ready, while their superior asserted herself directly in front of the metal doors, as they hummed closed.

"Be right back," she told the rest of the unit, winking as they slid shut with a cheerful, musical chime.

* * *

In his life, Chris had seen two sides of Umbrella. Primarily it had been the chaos that they instigated in the streets, when the masses of zombies roaming the country descended on a major population centre and caused untold damage to the lives there. Now, standing in the elevator of one of the corporation's most grandiose administrative buildings, he was bearing witness to the luxury that had been bought with the money that came from causing such catastrophes. The comparisons angered him acutely. The box he was currently riding in was more luxurious than his entire apartment, and probably cost significantly more.

"So, Shakahnna? You don't look Indian, I have to say," he said eventually, voicing a concern that had been bothering him since their introduction at the briefing earlier in the evening.

"Hah, it's not Indian, it be's made up," she informed him, looking over her shoulder at him and grinning, "I like things that doth reek of quirk, and it does. Besides, you'd have to be pretty silly to use a real name when dealing with Umbrella."

"I'm using my real name," he replied, flicking the safety catch on his weapon on and then off again compulsively in order to occupy his fingers.

"Don't you worry that they'll try to hurt your family or friends?" she queried, turning around to stare at him flatly.

"They can't," he told her, sighing wistfully, "not any more, at least."

There was a moment of silence as the ramifications of that statement sank in and then the redhead gave him a sympathetic look. "Aww, I'm sorry toots, that's terrible," she said sincerely, reaching out to pat his shoulder as affectionately as possible when one considered that she was holding knives within a few inches of his neck.

"Hey!" Kane snapped, startling the other occupants of the elevator, "do you mind? Leave your safety catch alone."

"Right, sorry," the blond muttered, as his female superior stuck her tongue out at the other man and promptly resumed her position by the doors. After a moment, the youngest member of the group spoke up again, this time addressing the second male. "So why are you here?" he questioned, leaning against the wall as they waited. The individual who had been queried said nothing at first, before his scowl deepened and he glared at the youth.

"Alright, listen up because I'm only saying this once," he responded, looking at him through eyes that were narrowed out of habit, "and I'm only telling you now so you don't bitch about it later. I used to work for Umbrella's private military right up until a few years back when they left me for dead. Now I'm here for a little payback."

"You used to work for Umbrella?" the younger man asked, sounding somewhat incredulous, "and they let you work for S.T.A.R.S?"

"Shit, what's your problem?" the dark-haired individual scoffed, apparently unaware of the irony in his statement, "I just insisted a little stronger than most people do. Besides, I've got less reason to betray this group than you do."

"What do you mean?" Chris queried, to which the other man gripped the collar of his navy shit and unbuttoned it so that his partner could see the metal bracelet surrounding his neck with a small, red LED blinking from its surface.

"They're keeping tabs on me all the time," he explained, buttoning the upper part of his top to cover the band again, "and as sci-fi as it seems, there's a small charge in here that'll make sure I regret any decision to go back to Umbrella _very _briefly. So you don't need to get your panties in a bunch over me; I couldn't be a threat if I wanted to. Now shut up."

He stared for a moment longer, before he closed his eyes and allowed his head to fall back against the wall behind him as they waited to reach the upper level. "How about you Shak?" the blond asked. The female in question smiled to herself, before turning to face him, a beaming grin on her face as usual.

"Nu uh toots, airing one's dirty laundry in public is reprehensible, we won't be doing that," she informed him, waving a finger at him in a mock-chastening gesture, the impact of which was largely reduced by the fact that blood was shaking from her claws and spattering on the front of his uniform.

"Okay, I understand that, but it must have been something pretty bad for you to want to do this, right?" he pondered, scratching the scraggly growth of facial hair that was covering his chin, "I mean, for you to actually want to kill these people?"

"Exsqueeze me? They be's the bad guys," Shakahnna asserted, a slight wrinkle appearing at the bridge of her nose as she frowned disapprovingly, "this isn't a war; we're not fighting over land or because our belief systems are different, what they be doing is wrong. If they're punished for it after they die then so be it, but that doesn't mean they should be allowed to do as they like while they're alive. My personal feelings and motives have nothing to do with it."

Her speech concluded with the chime to indicate that the elevator had reached the penthouse and before the youth could respond in any way she turned on her heel and bounded out of the small box, evidently more concerned with scoring fifty points for the League Table than with any kind of arguing. She skipped ahead as the two males exited the lift in the manner of soldiers, using their weapons to scan the vicinity and constantly checking their blind spots. They accomplished quickly that which their female superior had surmised immediately: that there were no hostile presences in the corridor beyond the square chamber. With that, she bounced onwards down the hallway with a spring in her step.

"Erm, Shak, I'm sorry if I said the wrong thing," the fair-haired individual muttered quietly as he followed along in the energetic redhead's wake. She stopped in place and turned around to face him.

"You've got nothing to apologise for, you just said something silly," she informed him, smiling encouragingly, "but you're still young so of course you're prone to be like that. I've no doubt that you'll understand in time."

"I'm twenty-three, you know," he pointed out, to which she simply shrugged.

"And? I know plenty of people that age who are silly," she replied, before shooting a glance at their third partner, "I know plenty of people who are older and _still _silly. Like Kane."

"Hey!" the dark-haired male snapped aggressively.

"Do you chew him out as well?" Chris asked, somewhat bitterly. Unfortunately, when the expression on the young female's face momentarily became one of hurt, he felt inordinately guilty for his remark.

"Give what I said a little thought and maybe we can be talking about it later, okies?" the Lieutenant questioned, to which the blond simply nodded in agreement, this in turn bringing a smile back to her face, "in that case, come on toots, fifty points awaits."

* * *

Administrative Director Cecil Washington regarded his watch with an air of irritability, doing so for the umpteenth time in the past quarter of an hour. His aggravated sigh of discontent roused the attention of the leader of the black-clad Special Forces unit responsible for his safety, who turned to him, the gasmask on its face obscuring its identity. The executive matched glances with the glowing red pinpoints of light at the centre of the soldier's goggles momentarily before turning to stare out of the window at the dark city below. He was a gaunt man with well-maintained black hair that was beginning to turn silver at its edges and possessed an air of distinction in his expensive, tailored suit, which was grey in colour and had been embroidered in several places with the Umbrella Corporation's octagonal logo. The conglomerate's private military were wearing the customary generic uniform that made their relative position in the company's hierarchy clear, though most of them dwarfed him considerably in spite of his tall and lean stature.

"Where the hell is he?" the Director growled, pulling back his sleeve and inspecting his timepiece once again.

"Urgent matters have come to his attention and he has been forced to take a short adjournment," the U.S.F unit's leader informed him, the voice emanating from the mask distinctly female and distorted eerily by the filter over her mouth as well as an abnormal level of emotionless neutrality that made her tone flat and level, almost as though she were simply regurgitating word-for-word what someone else had told her, "my apologies."

The executive sneered and gave a dismissive wave, unwilling to comment. "Tell me, Miss...?" he began, waiting for her to answer as he changed the topic of conversation.

"Sergeant Olivia Green," the shrouded woman said dully.

"Indeed, Sergeant Green, tell me, are you a good soldier?" he queried, moving away from her and seating himself at his desk, leaning back into the padded leather chair and lacing his fingers as he waited for the U.S.F member's response.

"My classification is that of the highest level, "she stated, "I lack the data for further extrapolation."

"You understand my concern, of course," the suited male replied, "I need to be certain that my safety is being taken seriously."

"My priority is to ensure your safety," she told him, continuing to stare at him from behind her breathing apparatus "I have been selected especially to match your specifications by my commanding officer."

"Naturally, I would expect no less from him, though it rather begs the question as to why a man like him needs surround himself with such talented officers, having no security concerns of his own," he mused aloud. As he had not addressed her directly, however, she did not respond. There was something almost soulless about her nature that put him in mind of a doll.

He turned his eyes away from her to take in the rest of her group. Unlike her they showed signs of life, shifting uncomfortably every now and then from one foot to the other, movements and motions that made the man that much more comfortable in their presence in complete contrast to the autonomous actions of their superior. There were two individuals posted by the window at her command, and another by the door, while her second-in-command stood at the other end of the desk. He was aware of the presence of two further groups of four soldiers who were patrolling the hallways and rooms throughout the upper level, and he could hear them talking over the radio at regular intervals to announce their status. Almost on cue, her radio gave a burst of static to signify an incoming transmission.

"_Contact," _one of her corporals said simply. The U.S.F commanding officer reached to the device on her shoulder, thumbing the button that allowed outgoing communication, her motions few and subtle, and any requiring a greater deal of effort seeming almost mechanical.

"Number? Specifications?" she asked. When there was no response, she pressed the same button once again. "Fire team two, locate fire team three and assess their condition," she commanded, before turning to the soldier posted at the door of the office they were currently waiting in, "proceed to this room's exterior and signal if there is any disturbance."

The man saluted sharply and exited the room, quickly and efficiently following the order that he had been given in the manner that he had been trained for. Washington could not help but wonder if perhaps the soldier was as pleased to be out of his commanding officer's presence as he imagined he was. The executive wondered exactly what it was that made the female behave in such a manner that even those who were trained to be emotionless and exercise no discretion of their own seemed eager to avoid her company.

"Something wrong, Sergeant Green?" the suited male asked, a perplexed look appearing on his face.

"No," she told him, her face as hauntingly blank as the mask that covered it.

* * *

"Boooriiing!" Shakahnna announced, loudly from her position, crouching within one the door frames of the uppermost floor's offices. As was regularly the case on a Saturday evening, she was blood-stained and elated with bullets flying inches from her right ear.

She had given herself a pat on the back for scoring the first fifteen points of the evening without the victim in question even realising that he had improved the redhead's standing on the League Table, impaling him through the back of the neck without so much as letting him know that she was standing directly behind him. Unfortunately, his superior had noticed her at that point and radioed the other members of his unit. For spoiling her foray into stealth she had sliced off his hand, though even with a segment of his body missing he had still been capable of punching her full in the face with his left, and only, fist, before she had gleefully decapitated him with one simultaneous swipe of both of her bladed gloves. At that point, however, the other half of his team had opened fire on her and she had been forced to move out of the corridor. Though not overly concerned with her own mortality, she was not an idiot either. And in spite of the fact that she had a newly-acquired burst lip to enjoy, thirty seconds was far too long for a fire fight in her opinion.

"Not really the word I would use," Chris replied from the doorway opposite hers, before spinning out into the hallway and unleashing a blast of gunfire from his weapon that peppered the walls, missing the enemy soldiers, who ducked into offices of their own to avoid his bullets. Further from the conflict, Kane could be heard swearing loudly as he too laid down a hail of nine millimetre fire in their direction.

"You know what makes boring stuff more interesting?" the Lieutenant asked, grinning broadly as she reached to her belt and unhooked one of her grenades, looking at the blond with an expression that conveyed her intentions just as efficiently as the explosive device sitting in her palm.

"Are you serious?" he stammered, to which she rolled her eyes.

"Some day, toots, you'll get to know me better and realise that I'm _always _serious," she informed him, receiving nothing but a blank stare in response, "now cover me, okies?"

Obediently, the younger male spun on the spot again and sprayed the corridor in front of him, just as his partner took the ring of the grenade's pin in her teeth and pulled it out with a shake of her head. With that, she tossed it backwards over her shoulder and rose to her feet as her fair-haired subordinate ducked into the shelter of her doorway. There was a loud explosion and two synchronised male screams as the U.S.F members were blown up, and then the flame-haired sadomasochist whirled into the hall and skipped the now-scorched length of it to find her quarry.

She located the first victim lying bloodied amid a drift of loose paper, a piece of shrapnel embedded in his sternum, and promptly strode over to him, listening to him breathe heavily through his filter as he watched her through the cracked lenses on his goggles. Offering him an unsympathetic smile, she reached down and hooked her left set of claws into the front of his black uniform before lifting him up and stabbing him roughly through the eyes. Dropping him again, she turned around to find that her second target had been located lying face down amid the debris from a wall by her junior, who aimed his MP5 and executed the prone male via a gunshot to the head. Shakahnna contemplated playfully chastising him for taking her fifteen points, but instead advanced on him and clapped him on the back in a gesture of camaraderie.

"Nice work," she told him, smiling at him cheerfully, "you be's getting it now. And remember to tell Captain Shawn how many you gotted when we go back so he can write your score down."

"What the hell was that?" Kane snarled angrily as he approached their position, pressing the button on his firearm to eject the empty magazine there before slamming in a new clip. He was evidently displeased with something that she had done, and more so than usual as his customary frown seemed that much deeper. "You want to make our position any more obvious?" he growled, "if the guys guarding our target have any training at all, they'll be moving the V.I.P out of here already."

"There's no way I'm letting fifty points get away from me," Shakahnna informed him, wiping her blades on the front of her uniform before turning to walk down the corridor, "which means that we should be going now."

She walked ahead of the two males, leading them further down the corridor in search of the individual who would earn her a one thousand point total. She smiled at that thought and it brought the spring back into her step. As they reached the end of that stretch of hallway, however, they were accosted by a four-strong group of soldiers clad in black and wearing gasmasks coming around the corner to the left. Almost instinctively reacting to the presence of an enemy, the redhead clawed at the foremost figure's wrist, slashing his forearms and causing him to fumble his weapon. Grunting aggressively, the masked individual aimed a solid kick at the young woman's head, only for her to block the strike with one hand and impale the man's crotch with the other's talons. The three behind shouldered their sub-machineguns and opened fire without hesitation, forcing her to lunge to the side, dragging her castrated pin cushion along with her. The door to the office beside her splintered under her weight as the air where she had previously been standing was filled with flying lead and she hit the floor on top of it, her latest victim collapsing next to her in a bloodied heap.

Chris and Kane stood against the wall of the corridor, their weapons raised as the U.S.F unit continued its barrage, both waiting in relative impatience, though the latter was decidedly more aggravated. When the hail of bullets halted, a new member of the corporate militia stepped into view, only for the dark-haired male to tackle him roughly to the ground. The two fell through the open doorway, Shakahnna rolling neatly out of the way as they crashed to the floor where she had been lying, the S.T.A.R.S member taking the immediate upper hand and punching his opponent square in the air filter covering his mouth. Electing not to remain where they were, the two final troops rushed around the corner and quickly caught the last, unmasked individual in the passage off guard, grabbing him forcibly and shoving him to the floor. Seeing this, the Lieutenant hopped up and struggled her way through the door, stepping over the one dead and two living bodies in the office's entrance.

Uncharacteristically aggravated, the redhead slid her claws into the spine of the nearest enemy and pulled him backwards, holding him around the face with one arm and tilting his head back expertly, before bringing her blades to his throat and slashing his windpipe open. The four parallel gashes bubbled as he struggled for breath, dark red blood oozing from the wounds as she let him flop to the carpet below. Her fair-haired subordinate used the second attacker's momentary distraction to his advantage and kicked out, scoring a direct hit with the other man's groin, bringing his MP5 up and leaving a trail of bullet holes across the length of his torso. Most impacted harmlessly on the flak jacket, though the last two struck him under the chin and through the eye in turn. He staggered and then toppled backwards, slumping to the floor beside his companion.

The second-in-command of the navy-clad soldiers offered a hand to the younger man lying sprawled on the ground, who looked pointedly at the knives attached to the back of her glove and then stood up under his own power. "Thanks, but I could do without any more scars," he said apologetically, brushing his uniform off as he clambered to his feet, "still, thanks, I am grateful."

"Suit yourself, toots, but that is quite alright," she replied, smiling until she became aware of the other individual's blackened eye and the fact that he was favouring his left side, "you okay?"

"Yeah, he just kicked me a couple of times is all," he informed her, shooting a glance at the corpse of the soldier who had previously been standing over him, "although I guess we're more than even now, huh?"

"Uhuh," she agreed, turning around to find Kane still standing over the last of the U.S.F fire team and slamming his fists into each side of the downed individual's face relentlessly. The abused soldier lolled back and forth with each blow, limp perhaps because he was unconscious or dead. Shakahnna beamed and wandered around the corner in search of her target, while Chris clapped a hand on his dark-haired partner's shoulder.

"We should get moving," he said, to which the other male nodded, withdrawing his sidearm casually, flicking off the safety catch and pulling back the slide to chamber a bullet. Seemingly without conscience, he pressed the barrel to the forehead of the battered Special Forces operative and pulled the trigger. Then, with all the brooding nonchalance that the blond had come to expect from his companion, he snapped the catch back into place and holstered the pistol.

"Right," he grunted as he stood up, brushing past his junior briskly.

"Hey, do you get along with Shak?" the youth asked, following quickly behind.

"No, I hate her," the other grunted, without sparing his colleague a glance, clear that the feeling extended well beyond their redheaded partner.

"Really? You don't seem to have that kind of relationship from what I've seen," he commented, attempting to match pace with the short-tempered soldier.

"She assumes that because we're on the same team we must be friends; she behaved that way even around the people who disapproved of her little game, the ones who treated her like she was a monster or some kind of nut job," he explained, maintaining his focus on the corridor, "I'm not sure whether she thinks she'll change the way we act by being overly pleasant or if she's just one of those people who can't be an asshole. That or she's oblivious, which would be kind of pathetic."

"I think that's awful, I mean, would it kill you to be less of a jerk?" the younger of the two asked, which caused the elder to scowl deeply but still did not earn him eye contact, "besides, didn't you offer her a cigarette downstairs?"

"What, like that precedes a fucking marriage proposal? Besides, I don't like her but if I was going to have anyone backing me up at a crucial moment then it would be her," he responded, finally glancing sidelong at the man who was attempting to walk beside him, "don't get me wrong, I could care less about the people in this fucked up organisation, but I want my revenge. I may be fighting the good fight, but I do what I do for me alone."

"You're a selfish prick," Chris informed him flatly, this time his stride outstripping that of Kane's as the dark-haired soldier slowed slightly.

"Fuck you!" he growled at the other man's back, before picking up his pace again to chase the two other members of his team as they advanced through the complex's penthouse. Further ahead he could see the Lieutenant rounding a corner and stopping dead, a broad grin appearing on her face.

"_There _you are!" she cried happily, and before her subordinates could catch up with her, she took off at a run.

* * *

Shakahnna's grin was in full bloom as she raced down the hallway towards the League Table's Holy Grail, the man in the expensive, grey suit evidently the one that she was looking for. Fortunately, there was also another U.S.F unit gathered around him and she began to salivate at the thought of all those points. It was doubtful that she would not have surpassed the one thousand point mark by the time this operation had concluded, and this pleased her no end. Luckily, the space between her and her quarry was not that great, and before the foremost soldier had even raised his weapon she plunged her claws to the hilt in his stomach, arching them upwards to puncture the organs within his ribcage before clutching him around the throat with her free hand and lifting him off his feet. She carried him forwards using him as a shield against the bullets of her opponents, even as the leader of the black-clad group gripped the collar of the executive's suit roughly and pulled him to the side.

"Suppressing fire," the female Special Forces member ordered emotionlessly, rearing back and kicking a nearby door open in a shower of wooden fragments, before unceremoniously tossing the well-dressed male through it, seemingly not so respectful of his status. The other soldiers under her command retreated, continuing to fire upon the approaching S.T.A.R.S members as they filed out through the doorway and into the room beyond the corridor.

Pouting at their unwillingness to play with her, she dropped the recently deceased male and gave chase, only to jump backwards when one of the three remaining subordinates doubled back and emerged into the hallway, spraying the walls with bullets. Ducking down as the man spun to bring his weapon to bear upon her, she swung her leg around in an arc and tripped him, causing him to slump against the wall. Having suffered a heavy blow to the head courtesy of the vertical surface, he lifted his right hand to ward away any attacks that might have been aimed at him, only for the female to slice off three of his fingers in a single swipe before kicking him firmly in the face and stepping over him in a bid to make haste after her true objective. As she had expected, Kane quickly pounced upon the downed man with his combat knife drawn and began to dissect him in a none-too-subtle manner. Chris arrived at the door as she made it halfway across the room, only for a new soldier to appear in the entrance opposite and level his weapon.

With reflexes that would make a cat jealous, the redhead dropped to the floor behind one of this office's various desks as the recent arrival pulled the trigger. The burst of semi-automatic fire passed over Shakahnna's position on the ground and would most likely have hit her had she not ducked at that exact moment, but unfortunately caught her young partner off guard. One of the rounds struck him in the armour covering his chest, the impact punching him off his feet and sending him slamming backwards into the wall at his rear. Incensed, the female grabbed one of the nearby swivel chairs and stood up, lifting it over her head and hurling it at the soldier advancing into the room, who blocked it haphazardly and recoiled when the seat back cracked one of his goggles' lenses. She was on him immediately, thrusting her blades at his torso, only to be denied by the presence of his MP5, which he used as a makeshift shield before drawing his own sharp-edged weapon and swinging at her. She parried, receiving a neat slice across the back of her forearm as the knife slid past, before twirling athletically out of his reach. When he made the mistake of stepping forward to reach her, she finished her spin with a swing of her right arm, bringing it up in an uppercut and impaling his head through the underside of his chin. Blood spurted from his mouth, the victor's claws visible between his teeth until she casually withdrew them from his skull and pushed him over with her other hand.

Chris was sitting in the corridor outside of the room rubbing his chest through his flak-jacket, while Kane stood nearby, evidently finished with the now-mutilated corpse that was bleeding onto the carpet without any sign of stopping. She crouched down next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You'll have to be more careful, toots," she said, pleased to see that he was unharmed but concerned for his well-being nonetheless, "don't want you to be getting hurt now, do we?"

"I guess not," the blond said, climbing to his feet using the wall as a prop and retrieving his MP5 from where it hung on its strap, "thanks, Shak."

"Okies, those three are either heading for the stairs, in which case they'll run into Captain Shawn and the others downstairs, or they're planning on doubling back to the elevator, which I like better as a turn of events because it means we can cut them off," she stated as the S.T.A.R.S members gathered in a triangle, "so you two are going back to the elevator in case they do that second one and I'm going to chase after them because I _really _want those fifty points."

The dark-haired male grunted. "That's a winner," he muttered sardonically, to which the redhead smiled and began to nod enthusiastically, leaving the scowling individual incredibly bemused.

"Are you going to be okay on your own?" the youngest team member asked, earning himself a look from his superior that oozed smugness that he had never encountered in such extreme measures before.

"Hehehe, I'll let you off because you're new, but I should probably have kicked you in the knackers for that one," she informed him, which caused there to be two people in the corridor who were incredibly bemused, "now let's hurry up before my fifty points have gotted away."

"Right," Chris said, shouldering his weapon as Kane simply nodded and did the same. She allowed herself a moment to wave after them as they made their way back to the elevators, before she turned to the path taken by the two remaining U.S.F members and the businessman they were attempting to protect. Grinning broadly, she cupped her hands to her mouth and called after them.

"Ready or not, here I come!"


	2. Episode One Point Two

**Episode One Point Two: Had To Know It Was In Your Cards**

Administrative Director Washington was currently not enjoying his treatment at the hands of his supposed bodyguards. The woman in charge of his security had recently been manhandling him rather more roughly than he believed to be necessary and he was thankful when their three-strong group paused momentarily in another of the penthouse's vacant offices. The Sergeant gestured to her second-in-command and without a word he moved to the outside of the room to ensure that they were not being followed. With a degree of indignation, the executive adjusted his clothing as though the wrinkles that had appeared on them were an affront to his dignity caused entirely by the female standing nearby

"I daresay your professionalism leaves something to be desired," he muttered briskly, straightening his tie as she turned to transfix him with the glowing red pupils that represented her eyes.

"You may feel free to complain to my superior," she said flatly, her tone beginning to aggravate him all the more," my priority is to ensure your safety."

"Oh yes?" he spluttered, raising an eyebrow and marching up to her in a fit of rage, "and you call dragging me through the corridors by my collar concern for my safety, do you?"

It was at that moment that he realised that he was looking up at the soldier, and came to the startling realisation that she was considerably taller than him. "I cannot feel concern, I merely acted on existing data that compared the ninety-nine point nine percent probability that you would survive forcible manoeuvring to the zero percent probability that you would survive apprehension by a member of S.T.A.R.S," she stated, as his recently acquired perspective on their relative builds caused him to mentally retract his comments, in spite of the fact that Olivia was evidently incapable of being violent towards someone she had not been ordered to attack.

"Take off your mask," he ordered, his curiosity getting the better of him. She followed his command without question, removing the breathing apparatus and clipping it to her belt before staring at him with emotionless hazel orbs. Her dark hair fell about her shoulders, as flat and devoid of life as her gaze. Had it not been for the utter neutrality of her facial expression then she may have been considered quite beautiful among those who favoured strong women, but the glaze on her empty eyes and her pallid complexion rendered her entirely unattractive. "I see now why you speak in that manner," he commented, as she continued to watch him blankly.

There was a series of loud crashes from outside the room that they were currently waiting in, followed by a decidedly masculine scream as the U.S.F Lieutenant met a grizzly end. There was also what sounded like a young woman giggling to herself before the area beyond the door fell silent once again. Before the businessman could question his protector as to her intended course of action the expressionless female raised her weapon to her shoulder and aimed it directly at the office's entrance. She had evidently calculated a higher survival rate for fighting than fleeing in this instance. When the door obscuring their view of the corridor exploded open the soldier fired upon the figure that darted through, tracking it with her firearm as it shot forwards before collapsing to the ground riddled with bullets, realising too late that she had been shooting the corpse of her erstwhile second-in-command, though she did not register any shock at this revelation.

Shakahnna was upon her quarry before the indifferent drone had managed to adjust her aim and promptly kicked the MP5 from her hands, sending it bouncing off the veneered surface of a desk halfway across the chamber and clattering to the floor. In the split second that it would normally have taken her to turn her opponent into a human shish kebab, however, the deathly pale brunette had drawn her knife and had neatly met the disembowelling stroke that had been thrust towards her stomach, locking their blades together.

"Estimated output of seventy five percent should be sufficient," she recounted, neither with confidence nor with feeling, simply having analysed the data available to her about the organisation she had been trained to combat and this particular member's build and style.

"Oh, shut thou puss," the other woman said dismissively, rolling her eyes.

The Lieutenant and the Sergeant exchanged glances, one's eternally neutral countenance contrasting with the other's intense and unyielding grin, formed both from malice for a member of the organisation she opposed and simple, honest cheerfulness. It was incredibly rare that the redhead was ever given the opportunity to fight with someone whose skills were comparable to her own, not to mention the fact that even the most worthy enemies were usually shitting themselves when they came face-to-face with her blood-stained, manic and incredibly handsome visage. Here was someone, a woman no less, who not only seemed to be quick and strong, but also completely unafraid. Flexing her right arm, her heavily-conditioned muscles strained against a similarly well-built limb and she came to the conclusion that this was going to be a _lot _of fun. Unfortunately for her opposition, she possessed claws on both hands.

Olivia's reaction to the swipe at her throat was blindingly abrupt, her body flowing out of her other female's reach in the blink of an eye before she hopped backwards again to avoid the repercussions of abandoning her momentary stalemate as the flame-haired S.T.A.R.S member approached her amid a frenzy of slashes. The U.S.F soldier pushed the executive behind her out of the way with her free hand, unintentionally shoving him to the floor where he proceeded to scramble to another doorway and rattle the handle desperately. His bodyguard parried two of her opponent's strokes before she was knocked backwards by a sharp boot to her stomach just as her managed to open the door and duck through. Shakahnna was denied a killing stroke once again, swiping with both of her blades as she passed through the entrance, only for her intended victim to duck and slice a shallow line of crimson across the front of her thighs, causing her to wince and follow up with a further, upward swipe that threatened to vertically slit her windpipe and would have had she not been capable of deflecting it.

Advancing along the next corridor, the formally-dressed male led the way as the two militants behind him continued to hack and slash at each other, their wild swings scoring deep gashes on the walls as they progressed. The redhead lashed out with her off-hand, only for her enemy to seize her by the wrist and twist her arm to the side, cutting her neatly across the abdomen and missing an evisceration by the merest fraction of an inch by turning her body to the side. The left set of cat claws wriggled from the brunette's grip, however, and scored four parallel grooves in her right shoulder before both fighters backed off.

"Incorrect estimation, correction necessary, one hundred percent output in use," the doll-like soldier stated, taking her knife in her right hand before probing the wounds on her arm with the fingers of her left.

"I'm glad you can feel that," the ecstatic female said conversationally, revelling in the feel of her own wounds as the pallid Special Forces member looked at her blankly.

"Pain responses are a necessary mechanism to ensure self-preservation, emotion is not," she recounted.

"Excellent," the Lieutenant asserted, still smiling widely, "because I can't wait to hear you scream."

"Negative," Olivia informed her, before they exploded back into a flurry of motion.

Cecil Washington watched with his heart in his throat as the only thing that stood between himself and a very brief future involving sharp objects stood toe-to-toe with the individual who had every intention of taking his testicles as a trophy. He was not a military man by any stretch of the imagination, and so watching the lightning fast interaction between the people who represented his life and death in a very real sense was disorienting in the extreme. This was also his rationale for running away from the conflict as fast as he could. Letting out an aggravated growl, Shakahnna feinted to the right and promptly kicked her opponent's feet out from under her, abandoning a killing stroke in favour of simply stepping over her and pursuing the fleeing man. Unfortunately, as running was not something that the stout young woman considered a strength, she was not able to prevent the executive from ducking through a door that was signposted as the entrance to a staircase. When she eventually pushed through the door, her quarry was descending in a desperate bid to get away, while the sole remaining U.S.F member pursued her close behind. Grinning to herself, the redhead stepped smartly to the side as the brunette approached, casually taking her arm as she too entered the stairwell oblivious to the other woman's position until it was too late, and jerked her off her feet, hurling her down the concrete flight of steps. The emotionless soldier tumbled to the foot of the stairs, colliding with her charge and sending him rolling down the next set to a rather abrupt stop on the level below.

The gleeful female bounded the first few steps before vaulting to the landing on which rested her deathly pale enemy, who proceeded to spring to life as she approached, holding her weapon in her left hand as the opposing arm hung limply at her side, possibly broken. She struck out violently and erratically, perhaps seeing no other way to prolong her life, forcing her opponent to back away until she was no longer in the mood to do such a thing and swatted the knife out of her grip, leaving a set of cuts on her wrist as she did so. With one of her eyes swollen shut and her nose streaming blood, Olivia had perhaps never seemed so alive since the procedure that had changed her, which was ironic considering that she was on the verge of death, though her face was still a blank and expressionless mask.

The S.T.A.R.S soldier's breath hitched as she gritted her teeth expectantly and thrust her talons through the woman's thighs, forcing her to fall backwards and slump against the wall, the look on her face one of agony restrained only by her mental reprogramming, an exquisite expectancy building in the pit of Shakahnna's stomach as she could almost hear the pierced female's screams welling in her throat. Withdrawing the claws with a flourish, she stabbed again, this time transfixing the Umbrella-created drone at the shoulders and driving a gasp from her lungs. The brunette winced, beads of fluid beginning to form at the corners of her eyes, not because she was driven to tears, but simply because her body was reacting instinctively to the pain. Licking her lips as her mouth went dry, the flame-haired sadist gently twisted the eight blades attached to her gloves from side to side before sliding them out from where they were sheathed in her counterpart's body and, with an almost affectionate softness, pressed them through her armoured gut excruciatingly slowly. At this point, Olivia began to scream uncontrollably, the noise one of pure and primal anguish, and drowning out the satisfied groan of her opponent, who swiftly removed one of her hands from where it rested at her lower torso and used it to pierce her windpipe, halting her cry abruptly. She continued to stare blankly even in death, while Lieutenant Morgan stood up drenched in the crimson that had burst forth from her wounds and stretched, a pleasant smile on her face.

Below, the stricken form of Administrative Director Washington languished, clutching at a knee that had shattered on contact with the stone steps. He was groaning to himself, unable to attempt an escape, and when he heard the sound of the redhead's footsteps on the stairs behind him he realised that it was far too late anyway. Rolling over, he found himself face-to-face with a grinning effigy of blood-stained madness, which was regarding him playfully with bright green eyes.

"Please," he began to beg, wincing as he continued to cradle his wounded leg, "let me live. I can pay you."

She tilted her head to look at him from a different angle, raising a finger and waving it at him as though she were chastising him. "Tut, tut, tut, see this is what I always be talking about," she said sagely, as though teaching him a valuable lesson, "you be's greedy, and worse yet, you think that everyone else is too. If I were to let you go, you'd think it was perfectly acceptable to just carry on as you were, all in the name of profit."

"So you torture and kill people with ambition?" he growled, realising that this was not a situation that he could buy himself out of and suddenly becoming very angry.

"Exsqueeze me? Fuck off, you don't have ambition," she informed him, her brow furrowing as she proceeded to lay down the law for him, "you just wanna be rich. Well here's news, so does everyone else in society; you're nothing special. Be's people like you that are the reason this company is so corrupt in the first place and why I'm doing this now. I kind of wish I could let you speak with all those hippies who say killing Umbrella scum is wrong, but I don't want to miss out on the fifty points."

"I beg your pardon?" he queried, before her expression took on a dangerously perverse leer that made him shrink back.

"In fact, I just worked out how I can be getting _one hundred _points," she announced, leaning towards him with a look in her eyes that was decidedly frightening, "fuck yeah!"

With that statement, she crouched beside him and neatly sliced off his ear, which instinctively brought him out of his protective ball as he clasped at the open wound on the side of his head. Taking that as an open invitation, the smiling gamine stabbed him in the crotch.

* * *

It had been such a good day that Lieutenant Shakahnna Morgan couldn't help but sing to herself as she followed her path back through the halls of the Umbrella complex's penthouse offices. She was off-key as per usual, but made up for that by being as loud as humanly possible. It was doubtful that her medley went unnoticed by her colleagues waiting at the elevators, or even by those who had remained behind in the lobby. She was looking forward to reuniting with her team in the wake of an ever so successful operation and decided that maybe drinks would be on her tonight in celebration of her having surpassed the one thousand point mark. A mental note formed in her head to have a wank of victory when she got a couple of hours alone as well, since she obviously deserved it.

As she emerged into a new corridor, however, she became aware that there was someone else there. Turning to look, she was confronted by a tall, powerfully built man dressed in an entirely black ensemble standing at the other end of the hallway. From his appearance, he was middle-aged but possessed a countenance that was ageless and without flaw despite its obvious maturity. His blond hair was neatly swept back from his face, which seemed calm and neutral in an entirely different manner to that if the now-deceased Olivia, as though the male were simply in such control of his faculties that he never had need to express them. His business suit consisted of an exceptionally neat ebony jacket, trousers, shirt and tie, devoid of any intricacy or embellishment in order to retain the attire's practical nature, though it was evident that it had all cost a small fortune. He also wore a pair of well-polished boots that matched the colour of the rest of his outfit and continued the theme of functionality. Lastly, perched on the bridge of his nose was a pair of undoubtedly expensive sunglasses that hid his eyes. He stood confidently in place with his arms clasped behind his back, regarding her coolly from his position some thirty metres away.

"Do you be working for Umbrella too?" she questioned hopefully, wondering if she was lucky enough to have stumbled upon _another _one hundred points.

"Indeed," the imposing individual stated, a grin flourishing on the face of the young woman as she had to suppress a whoop of delight, "might I enquire as to your own affiliation?"

"Nu uh, a gentleman must introduce himself before a lady," the redhead informed the newcomer, freely allowing him to partake of her concept of social etiquette. She was alarmed when, in the blink of an eye, he was standing merely a yard from her, staring down at her intently without the slightest indication of his sudden, impossible movement. Despite herself, she jumped backwards a step.

"In that case, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my dear," he said, his voice evidently the product of upper class British parenting; a purr that resounded with charm, as well as an undercurrent of self-assured superiority, "Albert Wesker, at your service."

"Albert's an old man's name," she pointed out, his response to which was simply to stare at her humourlessly.

"Perhaps you would do me the honour of identifying yourself," he suggested, extending his hand towards her as though intending to take her own and kiss it in the manner of an aristocrat, "although our relationship will be necessarily brief I would enjoy a momentary repose, if I may."

"I'm Shak," she announced, grinning up at him before there was the sound of four metal claws impaling an outstretched palm from somewhere between them, "nice to meet you, bitch."

The reaction of the man identified as Wesker was not immediate, however, when it eventually manifested it was entirely inappropriate for someone whose hand had recently been transfixed by razor sharp steel blades. His thin lips adopted a subtle upward curve at their edges as he continued to watch her from behind the dark lenses obscuring his eyes. Matching his stare with a bewildered expression on her face, she withdrew her weapon, feeling the slick knives slide easily out of his flesh and suddenly curious as to why that hadn't caused him to cry like a little girl. He lowered his own limb, the embryonic smile having faded in favour of the stoic neutral line that his mouth had previously taken the form of.

"The sentiment is mutual, I assure you," he told her. There was a sudden sensation of unbearable tightness around her throat accompanied by the equally abrupt lack of solid ground under her feet, and in a moment of revelation Shakahnna realised that he was holding her over a foot in the air by one hand, the same appendage that she had wounded only seconds ago; had she been able to breathe then she may have been impressed. That came with the knowledge that she was beginning to suffocate as he performed the function of a hangman's noose, and only one solution came to mind: to cut herself down.

With an almost rabid determination, she began to slash feverishly at his right forearm, shredding his sleeve and bringing forth sprays of blood as she sliced into the skin beneath. He seemed perfectly content to allow her this freedom, continuing to stare at her with his covered eyes as her face turned red and began to make the transition to blue. Seeing that her original course of action was coming to no fruition, she altered her intentions, instead wrapping her arms around the limb that was holding her aloft, before lifting her legs to encompass his bicep also. Feeling the muscle straining beneath the fabric of his jacket combined with the fact that his extended arm did not bow in the slightest under her weight gave her a startling insight into this man's strength, and the flush on her cheeks was no longer simply a side effect of her lack of air.

Reasoning that she was no longer in danger of dying, the black clad male began to tighten his grip around her neck, choking her. Her response to this new stimulus was to bring her right boot back and stamp on his nose, a manoeuvre that succeeded in making him grunt and loosen his stranglehold. With this small victory and no other strategy readily apparent, she repeated the action several times over, slamming the underside of her foot into his face several times in rapid succession, each blow staggering him further still as her vigour increased, until she released her hold on his outstretched appendage and dropped to the floor, quickly seizing her moment and piercing his rib cage with a powerful forward thrust in the correct place to impale his heart. In what should have been his dying seconds, he brought his left hand up and dealt her a stinging backhand that rattled her teeth and sent her slamming into the wall face first.

She turned, only for the same hand to grip her by the hair at her crown and force her backwards against the vertical surface that was now at her back. Her eyes widened as she became aware of the first intended to crush her skull, and she quickly plunged her claws into the wrist of her opponent, severing the tendons within and causing him to involuntarily release her fiery tresses moments before his right arm sank to the elbow in the brickwork where she had previously been held. Circling him, she struck out, flaying deep gashes in his flesh as she passed and slicing jagged rents in his clothing in the same instant. Unimpressed by the damage that she was causing to his attire and indifferent to his injuries, he reached for her with his free hand and grasped the front of her tactical vest, dragging her around so that she was face-to-face with him. With no small amount of vexation, she noticed that while his slender nose should have been broken it still appeared to be intact and the surrounding area did not show any sign of her desperate attacks.

Breathing heavily, the redhead could feel her cheeks burning as she confronted a man who possessed inhuman resilience. There was a knot of terror tying itself in the pit of her stomach as she realised that nothing she could do would harm him, combining with an entirely different sensation as her blood began to run hot. This was an individual capable of withstanding her attacks and suffering limitless punishment; fitting then that he was an Umbrella employee, and therefore guilty of so many sins. That they had met under such circumstance smacked of destiny and though his expression remained neutral she suspected that perhaps he realised that too. They were at the same time kindred and contrasting in the same manner that fire and ice were both cardinal elements but completely opposed to one another. Wordlessly, the blond shoved his enemy away roughly, the force of the motion causing her to lose her footing and skid to a halt on the floor, the carpet leaving a burning sensation on the skin of her back despite the padding she was wearing. Rolling back onto her shoulders she kicked up and landed neatly on her feet, watching as Wesker flexed his muscular right arm and pulled it through the wall with very little exertion on his part, tearing away a chunk of plaster and a number of bricks as he did so.

"It has been some time since I have faced an opponent who necessitated any effort on my part," he informed her, adjusting his sunglasses in a habitual fashion, "I wonder, dear heart, might you be such an opponent?"

The young woman's face lit up, a grin spreading across her features and her eyes sparkling at the connotations of those words. Anything that allowed her to work up a sweat was good in her mind, on the provision that it didn't involve running, and though the man before her was undeniably Umbrella scum, he was admittedly quite hot as well. "Try me," she insisted, smiling widely as she set her feet apart and clenched her fists, aiming her bladed gloves in his direction.

"M'lady," the formally dressed gentleman said, advancing upon her, "it would be my pleasure."

Bracing herself as he approached, she hopped backwards as he made to grab her, leaving of criss-cross of lacerations across his forearm. Reversing her momentum, the redhead stepped forward on her left foot and delivered a powerful roundhouse to his midsection with her right, the impact causing the male to grunt as he continued to pursue her. Swinging her off-hand at his throat, she made to tear at his windpipe only for her wrist to be taken firmly in the grip of her opponent, who stopped it several inches short of his neck. As though to challenge her, he raised an eyebrow, questioning her intentions. She lashed out with her free hand raking bloody gouges in his chest, which caused his brow to crease in a wince for the briefest of seconds and her smile to broaden imperceptibly, mainly because it was already as wide as it could possibly be. Striking again, she grimaced as both of her upper limbs came to be restrained at their forearms.

She looked up at him as he twisted her arms away from his body, a picture of violence and ecstatic intensity with crimson fluid from her previous victims staining her face and matting her hair in places, her breathing rapid and her cheeks flushed. He remained stoic, but as he leaned towards her she reared back and drove her forehead into his nose, this action causing him to stagger slightly. With his lapse of concentration, she brought her left hand around and sliced at the forearm of the limb currently clutching her right, before shaking both loose of his grip. His jaw clenched in the most subtle manner for the briefest of moments as she escaped him once again, though Shakahnna noticed this and took satisfaction at having aggravated him so. For his part, he no longer resembled a gentlemanly executive. His sleeves had been shredded to bloody ribbons, soaked with the liquid of his veins, issued forth from wounds that had healed almost immediately, while his torso bore more than a dozen further rents courtesy of the young lady's blades. Though he was not a man who outwardly expressed his enjoyment, there was a part of him deep beneath the surface that was snarling with lust, knowing that he wished more than anything to indulge his sadomasochistic tendencies with this female.

He advanced again, one powerful hand seizing her upper left arm as though he intended to embrace her, only for her to twist out of his grasp once again, the majority of her sleeve remaining in his fingers, however. She backed away from him as he regarded the heavy scarring on her upper arm, a look of appraisal on his face as he took in the patchwork of red and silver, almost glowing with the flow of blood from her arousal. The upturn appeared on his lips once again, almost a sneer of satisfaction at having discovered her violent predilections were much the same as his own.

"It would appear that you and I are quite alike, my dear," he said, and though the expression upon her face did not change in the slightest it was clear that she did not appreciate the comparison.

"Fuck off, I'm not Umbrella scum like you are," she informed him curtly, before she developed that same perverse leer that heralded Administrative Director Washington's castration and death, "although if we be playing long enough then I might make it so that neither of us have any knackers."

"Indeed? Then perhaps an adjournment is in order," the black-clad individual stated, adjusting his sunglasses in the same manner as he had done earlier, before he lashed out with a strike that caught the younger woman in the mouth and rocked her backwards. Seizing her around the throat, he steadied her and then forced her backwards into the wall. A trail of deep vermillion spread from her mouth where it had burst as he held her in place, and she glared up at him through her fiery locks as he brought his face to but a few inches from her own.

With an almost caring gentleness, he opened his mouth and allowed his tongue to trace the line of her lower lip, the motion provoking a sense of confusion and desire in the redhead, whose body fidgeted awkwardly. Unsure of what else she could do, she plunged her claws into his sides, their mouths in such close proximity that she could feel him grunt as much as hear it. Impassioned, he kissed her, and in the heat of the moment she allowed herself to reciprocate. Though not overly experienced with romance, indeed, she had only had one partner in her life to this date, the Lieutenant liked her kisses in the same manner that she liked everything else, as hard and as violent and as bloody as possible. Luckily for her, Albert Wesker was not a man who treated his lovers with any great kindness, and their momentary tryst was fulfilling to them both. When they parted, Shakahnna allowed herself a moment to take laboured breaths and regain her composure, before looking up at him again.

"My team's gonna be wondering where I am, so I'll be going now," she told him bluntly, without contemplating the notion that she may not have had a say in the matter. As far as she was concerned, it would take a better man to keep her when she had prior engagements. The blond sneered ever so slightly.

"I somehow doubt that your compatriots will wonder anything ever again," he said, his voice heavy with malice, "you see, my love, you are the sole survivor of that particular unit."

Any suggestion of levity vanished from the young female's features, and her eyes widened in the face of the older individual's revelation that the rest of her group was dead. "What?" she asked, her voice hollow and tainted with disbelief as he matched her gaze with a level, emotionless stare of his own, the dark lenses shrouding his eyes making him seem all the more inhuman and callous.

The towering man's shoulders began to shake gently as he started to chuckle, at first quietly and then progressively louder. He laughed as she wrenched her claws from his body and lashed out, ripping deep gouges in the flesh of his chest and upper arms in a desperate attempt to earn her freedom. Her right hand slashed his cheek, tearing into his skin and bringing forth blood, as well as causing him to loosen his grip around her throat giving her the ease of movement she needed to pull away from him. He made no attempt to apprehend her as she fled away, the well-being of her partners all that was on her mind as she forced past him and made for the elevators, the laughing executive in her wake.

Sneering, Albert Wesker reached to his face and brushed the scarlet fluid from it, as the four wounds there scarred in an instant, turned a subtle silver in hue and then faded completely.

* * *

Shakahnna was clammy with sweat and panting heavily when she reached the area in which the elevators were located, her body both numb and quivering as she pressed the call button feverishly, willing the mechanism to work faster. She hoped against hope that the stranger had been incorrect in his assertions about her fellow S.T.A.R.S members, but considering his power and the menace in his voice when he had told her, it was unlikely that he was lying, if only because he had no reason to. Her heart was in her throat as she continued to jab the button, watching the doors slide open and stepping forward to view a sight that made her stomach lurch and her spirits sink.

Lying crumpled in the elevator were the corpses of her two partners. Kane lay amid a pool of rapidly cooling blood, his face an unrecognisable mass of tortured flesh where something had ripped a hole through his skull. The redhead had the sneaking suspicion that it had been a fist. On the other hand, Chris's body had not been violated in such a manner, and would have seemed in perfect health were it not for the fact that his head was pointing in entirely the wrong direction and his glazed eyes were staring lifelessly at the ceiling. Unsure as to whether she was going to vomit or cry, or perhaps one after the other, she allowed her mouth to fall open and her natural reaction to take its course.

"No," she whispered, placing her hands over her eyes as though perhaps doing that for long enough would make it so that it had never happened. Unfortunately, anything that is done cannot simply be undone; if such a thing were possible then what she was doing would be unnecessary.

"I often wonder if the revival of S.T.A.R.S was instigated with the express intention of causing me an unreasonable degree of vexation," the voice of Wesker mused from somewhere behind her, startling her out of her reverie, "my own former membership notwithstanding, I went to considerable trouble eradicating your predecessors. That the organisation would be resurrected to oppose me a second time is something of a personal affront."

The Lieutenant allowed her hands to fall from her eyes, taking in the bodies of her erstwhile companions once more, before clenching her fists angrily. "There's no way you were a S.T.A.R.S member," she growled, refusing to turn and face him.

"On the contrary, my dear, I was once a Captain," he informed her, and though she continued to look away, she could practically hear the sneer on his lips, "which, I believe, would make me your superior."

She bristled silently and furiously, angry that he was obviously being truthful, that he had once been a part of the organisation whose ideals she believed in earnestly and sincerely, and that he had cheapened those beliefs by turning his back on them and orchestrating their downfall. It was the icing to a cake which was already making her quiver with rage. Her right hand came to rest on the grip of the high calibre weapon holstered under her opposing arm and she removed it, thumbing off the safety catch and pulling back the hammer. Intending to test the true extent of the male's power, she turned to aim the firearm at him where he stood at the other end of the corridor.

"How dare you," she snarled, her teeth bared in a manner that lacked the joyous enthusiasm of her previous grins, instead filled solely with aggression and enmity towards her suit-wearing antagonist. There was a flush on her cheeks also, however, this one of embarrassment at having allowed herself to feel any pleasure from his company.

"A futile effort," he insisted, though he affected no change in her stance. Smirking ever so slightly, he began to stride forward, advancing on her at a steady pace.

Levelling her Desert Eagle, Shakahnna fired. With an almost blinding speed, he sidestepped the bullet and continued to approach. She adjusted her aim and pulled the trigger again, watching his form become a dark blur as he moved out of the way. Grunting, the young female continued to shoot at the figure that was drawing closer with each step, each of her rounds perfectly on target but for the fact that he never seemed to be occupying that spot, leaving only empty air in his place. Before she even realised it she had expended all but one of her shots and he was standing directly in front of her, the handgun clutched between her palms almost pressed into his chest. He looked down at her, expressionless, matching the furious glare on her own face, and raised an eyebrow once again. In the mind of the redhead this was tantamount to a challenge and the mood of her features altered in a split second. Her mouth became a broad leer and her emerald eyes gleamed with an expression of playfully malicious intent, moments before she adjusted her aim and shot him in the groin.

There was a silent second in the aftermath as the two individuals both seemed to be waiting for something and then Wesker sneered. "I am sorry to say that your favoured anatomical target will only affect a lesser man than I," he recounted flatly, causing her mouth and eyes to widen in horror.

"No way, you cheated!" she cried, to which his response was to seize her around the throat with both hands and lift her easily into the air, where she began to kick and struggle as he started to suffocate her for the second time since their original meeting.

"I did no such thing," he stated, holding her aloft as her feet struck his thighs and the bloody hole where his crotch should have been repeatedly without causing him to acknowledge his injury in the slightest, going so far as to adopt a subtle smile as she attempted in vain to do him harm.

Suspended only a few inches from the doors of the elevator, the female S.T.A.R.S member was well within arms reach of a sanctuary, but only if she could convince the other individual to release her. And since she couldn't speak, and because he was unlikely to listen, diplomacy was out of the question. She lifted the empty pistol in her right hand and slammed the butt of the handle into his temple as hard as she could, the impact splintering the metal frame of his sunglasses and knocking them off his face. He turned his head to the side in order to shake the broken remnants from his features before turning back to look at her without his shades for the first time since their paths had crossed. Rather than the azure colour she had been expecting to complete his Aryan composition, she was confronted by slit-like cat's eyes ringed with gold and red circles. His previous superhuman abilities in mind, it was difficult for her to feel any amount of surprise, particularly considering that she was currently focusing more intently on not dying.

Throwing her weapon into the elevator behind her, which was refusing to close due to her proximity, the eternally playful soul wrapped her arms around those of the man who was attempting to murder her and lifted her legs, setting her feet solidly on his chest. His eyes narrowed slightly as though he were attempting to understand her motives for doing so, until she struck out with the claws attached to her right fist and tore into his face, causing him to grunt and recoil. His grip weakened in the brief moment between losing the majority of the skin on the front of his head and realising that his right cheek was missing, and the Lieutenant seized the opportunity, pushing off from his torso. She flew backwards as his fingers parted ways with his neck and slammed roughly into the rear wall of the lift, denting the metal as she crashed and slumped to the carpeted floor. With the sudden force of her full weight, her enemy staggered backwards as she scrambled to the control panel beside the doors and pressed the button for the ground floor quickly and repeatedly.

Using her free hand the young woman pulled one of the grenades from her waist, jerked the pin away with her teeth and rolled the small bomb to the feet of her tormentor. Wesker was only just regaining his balance when the doors closed with a cheerful musical chime and the chamber began to descend. Moments later, the elevator was rocked by a loud explosion, which, thankfully, occurred several metres overhead. Panting heavily, Shakahnna placed her back to the wall beneath the gilt surface of the row of buttons and let out a deep breath. Almost as though reality wanted to ensure that her survival did not go to her head, her gaze fell upon the bodies of her two fellow S.T.A.R.S operatives, which were lying across from her. Staring blankly, she drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, before her eyes began to water and she started to shake uncontrollably.

* * *

When the elevator reached the lobby where the revolutionary group had begun its mission in relatively high spirits, the stout, flame-haired soldier was resolute as she walked out into the main chamber of the ground floor. Her eyes were bloodshot and there were thin trails in the grime covering her cheeks caused by her tears, but any sign of emotion was no longer present on her features. Though she had yet to return to her usual ebullient attitude, she had at least gone some way to regaining her composure. Behind her she dragged the two male corpses that had rode down with her by their jackets, Chris's eyes closed and their arms folded reverentially over their chests in a bid on the female's part to grant them a degree of dignity in their death. Once she had removed them from the lift's interior she lay them down outside the door respectfully, stepping forward to scan the entrance hall quickly. Though she had been expecting it and had attempted to remain in as stoic a mindset as possible, she was disturbed to find that there were three fresh bodies on the room's floor that had not been there when she had left, and all of them were wearing the same uniform as her.

Her eyes fell on the van that was still parked halfway through the complex's front doors and it occurred to her that, as there no longer seemed to be a driver, it would be up to her to evacuate the unit, or at the very least deliver its remains to her superiors. The problem manifested itself in the fact that she was not certified to drive, but she was a quick study and was vaguely aware of the basics, at least to the point where the term "screaming metal death-trap" would not be applicable. She had always wanted to drive, but her recent past had granted her access to more interesting fields such as firearms and explosives, and as such driving had taken a back seat. Giving the lifeless husks that had once been her companions a wide berth, she advanced through the shattered entrance and circled the Transit, moving to the driver-side door. She recoiled when she noticed that the driver was still there, sitting upright and with his hands on the wheel, only with his head lying severed in the seat next to him. Cursing to herself, she opened the door and began to reposition the unit's chauffeur as politely as possible, noting with some relief that the keys were still in the ignition. In her current state of mind, she didn't think of the possibility that prior to his demise, the male in the vehicle's cab had been intending to flee the scene in an attempt at self-preservation. Once she had moved him aside, she returned to the building's interior.

There was no doubt that it had been Wesker who had executed the other individual's that comprised her team. Far too much brutality had been used on the three men who had remained in the lobby to attribute it to a member of the security force, or even to the U.S.F. In fact, she only knew of one other person capable of exacting that degree of punishment on someone, and she was almost certain that it had not been herself. However, there was something very human about the extent of the mutilation that discounted the possibility that it had been one of Umbrella's escaped B.O.W creatures. It was an intrinsically personal slaughter that had been carried out, and one that lacked the mercy of the deaths in the lift. Even Matt, whose stature was great enough to dwarf even the black-clad sadist, had been disembowelled and dismembered, and seemed to have been completely incapable of defending himself. Manoeuvring the formerly lumbering male into the rear of the vehicle was no minor feat, and she was relieved once that was done. Though the Captain and Sage were not small men, in comparison to the largest member of their unit, moving them was considerably easier.

Once she had placed them within the confines of the van, she returned to the two bodies that were lying by the lift doors and made to carry Kane away, only for the sound of the second elevator arriving on the lowest level to draw her attention. Almost as though it were occurring in slow motion, she head the chime of the bell and watched as the small compartment opened, her eyes widening in horror as Albert Wesker stepped out, his motions fluid and efficient. He turned to stare her down, his sunglasses restored and his clothing no longer tattered and torn, giving the impression that their previous battle had never happened. She let the corpse slump to the ground and took up a combative stance, intending to attack him if he approached. The options of fight or flight appeared in her mind, a decision that was as old as time, but with motives beyond simply survival. On the one hand, Shakahnna wished to honour her comrades by returning their bodies to a safe place, and though she would never admit it out loud, she was also aware that in her current condition, and armed as she was, she would stand no chance of defeating the man before her. Alternatively, her desire to tear him to shreds for killing them in the first place was almost overpowering, and it was doubtful that even if she did choose the first option he would simply allow her to leave. Given the choice between doing right by her dead team mates and avenging them, she was quick to make her decision.

He made no move as she sprang towards him, looking on coolly as she closed the small distance between them in an instant until she lashed out at him. He blocked her strikes casually, each one strong enough to shatter the bones of an ordinary man but merely bouncing from his enhanced forearms and leaving dark purple bruises on her own. Gritting her teeth, she kicked him stiffly in the side before he could bring his guard down to meet her, only for him to turn and do the same thing, striking her with a roundhouse solidly in the midriff beneath her arm and sending her flying off her feet, before she collapsed in a crumpled heap several metres away. Wincing, she pushed herself up, her hands stained with the blood of her former partners, before turning back to face him, snarling as he appeared over her. He lifted his foot and pressed it into her chest, forcing her down onto her back, ignoring her as she drove her clawed right hand into his calf, and began to push downwards onto her.

"You will have to forgive my tardiness, dearest," he said, as though he were honestly remorseful, though only in a detached manner, "but I am afraid that you caused considerable damage to my attire and I was forced to seek a change of clothing."

"Get bent," she replied, his response to which was to press down on her with his boot, eliciting a wince and a gasp from her.

She slid the blades out of her opponent's leg, rocked her body to the side and rolled with as much force as she could muster in the opposite direction. Escaping the pressure that had threatened to flatten her rib cage, she rose to her haunches drenched in the gore that had previously been covering the ground and was caught completely off guard by a second kick that sent her skidding across the floor on her rear end.

He appeared over her again as she began to clamber to her feet, seizing her by the throat and lifting her up, the knives attached to her gloves sinking to the hilt on either side of his torso as he did so, ensuring that she had some purchase in case he attempted to lift her up once more. Any effort he made to strangle her would result in a quick and painful evisceration that would at least stun him for long enough to escape his clutches. Her expression changed to one of consternation, however, when he leered down at her as though he were suddenly very pleased. His left arm encircled her body and crushed her close to him, which, with her hands positioned at his stomach, left her no possible recourse. Rather than seeking to turn their embrace into a deadly, vice-like hold, however, he merely held her in place, denying her movement but permitting her to breathe. She looked up at him as he removed his right hand from her throat and moved it out of sight, her brow pinching as she frowned.

"What are you doing?" she asked, offering up only a minor struggle due to the fact that she was well-restrained and totally incapable of doing any more now that her hands were locked into his sternum.

"It would be quite discourteous of me to leave you without a lasting token of my affection, would it not?" he questioned in reply, though his own query was entirely rhetorical. His right hand emerged into her field of view holding a long and incredibly sharp combat knife in a downward grip.

Her eyes widened as he brought the weapon towards her, still sneering with malice as he did so, as she wondered what a sentimental gift courtesy of Albert Wesker would entail. She did not have long to ponder this matter, however, when he tightened his grip around her body suddenly in a manner that caused a rather suspicious crunch in the area of her ribs. Gasping, she threw her head back and gave a yell, only to feel the blade slice cleanly through the right side of the ellipsis her lips had formed. She screamed involuntarily, the tear in her face splitting her cheek apart as her mouth strained open, before she realised what was occurring and forced her teeth to grit tightly, blood flowing around her gums and down over the edge of her jaw. Attempting to provoke another pain-filled wail from her, he crushed her to him once more, though she continued only to grimace up at him, refusing to allow him to do her a further injury.

She twisted her talons within his abdomen desperately, struggling against him with all the strength she could possibly muster until, with a violent jerk and a loud tearing noise, she pulled them through either side of his body. He grunted as she ripped him open, the constriction pressuring her organs loosening as she cleaved eight deep grooves in his torso. Raising her arms, she thrust her right hand upward and stabbed him in the throat. His lips cracked and blood strained from them, running down over his chin as his windpipe and mouth filled with the scarlet liquid, moments before he unexpectedly toppled backwards and fell to the floor, carrying her with him as he did so. As they hit the ground, the young Lieutenant rose up atop him, straddling his chest and striking again as quickly as she could, her claws shattering his sunglasses, impaling his cat-like orbs and transfixing his head.

Sliding her weaponry from his skull and neck, she reared back and began to repeatedly drive them into his upper body, her visible grimace curving into the manic grin that had not graced her features in some time, a brutal mockery of its former glee due to the fact that the expression extended all the way to her temple on the right hand side of her face, her teeth stained with her own life fluid. She was breathing heavily as she stood from the maimed individual, her body trembling with adrenaline and her claws dripping the human B.O.W's mutated gore onto the tiles beneath her feet. A deep snorting noise rose from her throat before she pitched forward, a gobbet of blood and phlegm landing neatly on his cheek.

"Fuck you," she said, keeping her lips as close together she could manage to prevent the wound on her cheek from opening further. When he did not answer, she permitted herself a moment of celebration, shimmying as best she could with however many broken ribs her suitor had seen fit to impart upon her.

With her mood considerably lighter, Shakahnna walked the length of the lobby to stand beside her deceased companions. She shot them a look of dismay, but set aside those emotions as best she could because the next bit was going to be a whore. Gritting her teeth, the woman hauled Kane up onto her shoulders and carried him to the van, straining beneath his heavily muscled frame and trying to ignore the burning pain in her upper torso that complimented the rip in her face. On reflection, the formally-dressed gentleman had been a nice distraction and their brief moments together had been to her liking, though she could have done without the whole "murdering her friends" part. Even though he'd been Umbrella scum, he had been an exceptionally attractive individual. Unfortunately, they were now incompatible because he was dead and she was not. Haha, she was glad.

Once she had deposited Chris with the rest of the S.T.A.R.S and ensured that the five were well within the confines of the Transit's interior so that she didn't catch any part of them in the doors, she slammed them shut and made her way to the front of the vehicle. She clambered into the driver's seat and pulled the single door there closed also. Lingering for a moment as she gripped the lower part of her chest in one hand and her torn face in the other, she attempted to bring her breathing under control and focus. That accomplished, she started the van and put it into gear, reaching out through the window to adjust the wing mirror and catching a glimpse of Wesker's corpse again. She tilted her head as she looked at it and then stuck out her tongue, before sharply reminding herself not to do that again until she had at least managed to get her cheek stapled back together.

Pressing her foot down on the accelerator, the lone survivor made her exit.

* * *

Albert Wesker's eyes opened to gaze upon the ceiling of the administrative complex's lobby, the inhuman orbs having grown anew within their sockets and rotating into focus as they became acclimatised to their rebirth. He lifted his right arm fluidly and removed the second pair of sunglasses the young lady had shattered since their first meeting, reminding himself to rid her of that particular habit lest it prove irksome at a later point in their relationship. He was rather unaccustomed to dying, having only experienced it once before and rarely having entered into a situation where it proved a concern. This was not to say that he shied from conflict, quite the opposite in fact, he thrived in such instances, but his prowess was considerable and his capabilities were superhuman, and as such he had no equal who posed a threat to his life. Until now, that was. Luckily, death was merely a minor inconvenience for him.

That the young redhead had been capable of causing him a second demise was perhaps his most prominent reason for wishing to grant her his prolonged attention. Though decidedly uncivilised, she made for pleasant company, in the sense that his concept of pleasant was somewhat skewed. She was loyal to a fault, talented in combat and unwilling to concede, and it was these qualities that made her exceptionally appealing. As he had informed her, it had been quite some time since he had last had an opponent quite so capable and he would delight in testing her to the very limits of her fighting ability and stoic denial of his advances.

He stood up from his prone position on the floor and looked out over the dark courtyard in front of the building, lit only by the luminous fittings that decorated the interior. The claw marks and bloody, ragged holes in his suit no longer corresponded to wounds on his body, those having healed long before the more grievous injuries to his throat and head. He frowned slightly, reaching to his cheek and wiping away the spittle that the female had left on his cheek, making a further mental note that her manners required some refinement.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow, my love," he said, as he straightened his jacket and stepped out of the entrance hall and onto the street, "but rest assured that we shall meet again, when I make you my own."


	3. Episode Two Point One

**Episode Two Point One: Your Future's In An Oblong Box**

_Six months later..._

Albert Wesker was largely known as a man of wealth and taste. Well-spoken and sophisticated, he was an individual whose conduct could only be described as that of a gentleman, and a being of no small intellectual prowess. His contributions to the Umbrella Corporation during his decades of service had made him nothing short of a hero to the corrupt and affluent minority who had profited most notably from its growth, and he remained a figure of exceptional standing within the company. Unbeknownst to those around him, however, the majority of his most prominent characteristics were merely pretension, facades utilised to beguile and control the same people who perceived him as their subordinate, the man that had made them rich. He feigned greed as well as political and professional ambition in the same way that he feigned interest when conversing with his supposed peers, his only true goal being to obtain as much power and as much control as he possibly could. He appeared as he wished to be seen, an aristocrat of distinction, this image facilitating his subtle manipulations as he went about bringing the world under his influence. His tendency towards playing the social chameleon permitted him easy access to the good graces of those necessary few whose resources he found it prudent to use for his own endeavours and who were instrumental in achieving his goals.

Much like the man himself, his estate was a façade for the benefit of the company that he kept, with grounds sprawling over a large area and centred on a palatial main building. He was not an individual who regarded comfort as a necessity; he rarely slept, doing so only to pass the time between one appointment and another, and ate sparingly, usually to facilitate the comfort of any visitors who happened to be dining with him at the time. Had he no guests attending the mansion where he resided then it was entirely likely that it would have possessed a considerably more Spartan feel than the atmosphere of understated luxury that it instead exuded. The hub of the black-clad male's dwelling was the study in which he conducted the majority of his business when he was not visiting his various associates on professional matters. Sitting at the veneered mahogany desk that constituted the room's focal point, he went about quickly preparing his personal correspondence in the flowing italic script that was his handwriting, the scratch of his pen the only sound that could be heard save the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock situated nearby. On the wall opposite were a number of shelves laden with books that spanned the entire vertical surface from side-to-side and top-to-bottom, made accessible by a ladder that was attached by rails, all of the publications having been studied in detail by their owner at some point in the past. To the left were windows that looked out over the well-maintained gardens and flooded the chamber with bright, natural luminescence.

On the right hand side was the door, which was shut. In spite of this, and in spite of the fact that he was seemingly absorbed in his work, sitting in the leather bound office chair that occupied the space behind his desk, his ears twitched imperceptibly in acknowledgement of movement in the corridor outside. Moments later, there was a cordial knock on the wooden panel before it was pushed open and a young woman with shoulder-length auburn hair, wearing a grey, female's business suit, typified by a long skirt in place of trousers, appeared in the frame. She held a notepad in one hand, using the other to cover her mouth as she cleared her throat expectantly. The blond's flow ended as he punctuated his most recent sentence and replaced the cap to his expensive fountain pen, setting it down in front of him and glancing up, regarding her coolly from behind his sunglasses.

"How may I be of assistance, Miss Grey?" he queried, without moving from his position at his work station but raising one slender eyebrow quizzically to suggest that he anticipated a prompt and concise response.

"Lady Spencer and a gentleman here to see you, sir," she informed him, her professional tone born from many months spent in the service of the older male. As his toleration for incompetence was essentially non-existent, any person working for him longer than a fortnight was usually an exceptionally talented individual; anyone who remained in his service after a month could be nothing short of ravenously ambitious.

"Indeed? I would be grateful if you would show them in immediately," he responded, to which she bowed her head and turned on her heel, tracing her steps along the hallway. The fair-haired man stood and moved to a position beside his desk in preparation to greet his distinguished visitants, straightening the lapels of his jacket as he did so. After a few seconds, another young woman arrived at the entrance to the office, her ensemble similar to that of the secretary, though the cut of the garments was finer and evidently of a higher cost. Predominantly ebony in colour, the girl also wore a blouse of deep crimson beneath her blazer and tie, while her golden tresses were restrained beneath an Alice band of a colour that matched the majority of her attire. She looked up at him, brushing a few errant blonde strands from her face and tucking them neatly behind her ear, azure eyes sparkling as she quickly approached his position.

"Uncle!" she exclaimed, the heavy-set male begrudgingly allowing himself to be embraced about the midriff as she darted forward to greet him affectionately, her head coming to rest on the lower portion of his chest, the disparities between their respective heights immediately obvious.

"I would advise against such emotional outbursts, Lady Spencer," he told her bluntly, utilising her full title in order to remind her of their familial ties, and making no move to reciprocate her own motions.

"Please Uncle, there's really no need for this formality," the youth replied, removing her arms from where they were encircling his torso and taking a step backwards, apparently blithely unaware of his attempts to steer their conversation towards matters of business, "call me Sherry."

Wesker placed a hand on her shoulder in a movement that was as close to caring as was possible for him to perform, but which was meaningless due to the lack of emotion behind it, offering a warm smile that was equally devoid of feeling, seeming almost to be the most sincere expression in history. "I will do no such thing, my dear," he stated, "a young woman of your unimpeachable character should be afforded the proper respect."

"Respect becomes meaningless unless it is earned," she mused. The older man regarded her flatly, before adjusting his sunglasses with his right index finger perfunctorily.

"A commendable attitude," he announced, bringing a soft flush to her cheeks that she attempted unsuccessfully to conceal with her hands, as he momentarily turned his hidden eyes away to acknowledge the presence of the girl's chaperone, whom he recognised, "I was not aware that you had been assigned to Lady Spencer's protection, James."

Hunk, or James Cooper as he was known to extremely few, stood several feet from his charge at all times. Currently at rest, his feet were spaced evenly and his hands were clasped behind his back in a typical military at-ease stance. It was doubtful that there existed another man like the soldier, who could be at once so obviously aware of even the slightest inconsistency in his surroundings, and yet appear so entirely disinterested. Clad in the Umbrella Special Forces' characteristic black garb, consisting of a shirt and trousers that had been creased with pain-staking precision, and tactical equipment that, in this formal capacity, consisted solely of a flak jacket, radio and sidearm, it was evident that his appearance was not as important to him as respect for himself and his attire, though the length of his sand-coloured hair and stubble suggested that the ferocity of his training regime did not allow for much personal grooming to compliment his uniform. His stare was unyielding and intense, and though he was rapidly approaching fifty years of age, with flecks of grey amid his otherwise blond mane, he appeared to be in peak physical condition. Even when placed beside the abnormally gargantuan physique of the virally-enhanced Albert Wesker, he could not be described as a small man.

"Sir," he said bluntly, snapping to attention and offering the other man a crisp salute. His upbringing as part of the corporation's armed forces dictated that he would not say much more unless questioned directly, and the executive could not say that he disapproved of this characteristic. He enjoyed his business with the U.S.F member because he achieved the necessary results with the minimum of difficulty, and if there was anything that he could respect then it was efficiency. Still, with the greying male's encroaching old age and loyalty to the Spencer lineage, that he would become the bodyguard to the family's heir apparent was a logical progression. It had not been long since his reassignment, however, and in the few years since he and Wesker had last been acquainted it seemed that he had gained several new injuries, the most prominent of which was a thin line of scarred flesh interrupting the facial hair on his right cheek.

"Please, be seated," he suggested, moving back to his chair at the desk and easing himself into it, watching as the young woman took her place opposite him while the soldier who had been ordered to maintain her safety adopted a position directly beside her left shoulder to immediately facilitate her wishes, "I trust that you did not come here with the express intention of paying me a social visitation, my lady. Surely it would be the duty of a subordinate to bestow such a courtesy upon me."

"You make me sound so cold, Uncle," she exclaimed having only just regained her composure and rid herself of the scarlet hue that had threatened to manifest upon her features, "but ... there was one matter that I needed to speak with you about. When one considers that we are all family I though it would be a good idea to bring you the news myself, and I'm sorry that it couldn't be better tidings, but you were of course aware that Grandfather was very, very ill. Unfortunately his condition worsened and he has since ... passed away."

Wesker's features remained unreadable as the young woman's face fell at the recollection of the past few days, in which the only remaining member of her close family had finally succumbed to the ravages of age and poor health. "I was unaware," he lied expertly, his tone remaining as neutral as ever, "my condolences."

"Thank you," she sighed, bowing her head in a show of gratitude, "I appreciate that you say that. It must be difficult for you also; he was your father, after all."

"The Spencer family elected to foster me from an early age, though our association was perhaps not as strong as that fact would suggest," he stated flatly, failing to mention that the true reason he felt no sorrow for the passing of Umbrella's illustrious leader was because it was a state of affairs that he had brought about by his own hand, "regardless, his demise will prove a great loss to the corporation."

"Yes, I understand," the young female replied, the words causing Wesker to momentarily raise an eyebrow, unsure as to what it was that she was referring, "my mourning has been brief also; Grandfather's death places all of his responsibilities in my hands, and I have to be sure not to disappoint him. Though we may not feel like it, we have to attend to matters of business."

"Indeed," he assented, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the arms of his seat, lacing his fingers and watching the younger individual in a manner that was almost predatory, but which was most likely misconstrued as simple intensity due to the fact that the threatening glare in his eyes was hidden away, "perhaps you would care for some refreshment before we commence, however."

"Oh, I am sorry, I had meant that we should attend to business in general, not now; I really can't stay for long Uncle, I have arrangements to make for the funeral and ... well, you understand?" she finished lamely, adjusting her hair once again awkwardly as he continued to stare, "I could stay for a short while though, I suppose. And I am quite thirsty. Could I have water, please? I really can't stand alcohol."

"As you wish," he acquiesced, smirking inwardly as he moved one hand to the tray on the right hand side of the desk and removed two glasses from their place, clustered around various bottles and crystal decanters containing all manner of beverages to suit the tastes of his company, "I myself find any manner of intoxication to be incredibly distasteful. James?"

"No, sir, thank you, sir," the soldier responded, continuing to stare directly ahead with the disciplined glare that characterised him as the exceptional operative that he was. The pseudo-aristocratic blond had expected as much, asking only because the youthful Lady Spencer would have insisted had he not done so of his own accord. Once he had poured a measure of clear liquid into each of the containers before him from a pitcher that had also been situated among the numerous beverages, he set the larger item in its place and waved a hand dismissively, prompting her to select one.

"What was it that you wanted to talk about, Uncle? Was there anything in particular?" Sherry queried, as she took a sip from her glass, before clasping it in her hands and allowing it to rest in her lap, tilting her head in a manner that was sincerely curious, and may have proven endearing had the man before her not been a cold-hearted, murdering sociopath, and therefore unlikely to take an affectionate view of anything that she did.

"I wished to enquire as to your relationship with our esteemed board of directors, and any concerns you may have regarding those particular individuals," he informed her, the expression of bewilderment on her face growing ever more tangible as he spoke.

"Why would I have concerns about them?" she asked, almost as though his own sentiments were the strangest that she had ever heard, "I haven't met any of them in person, but Grandfather always spoke of them with a degree of fondness. He said that they were good, sensible men and women, who would lead the Umbrella Corporation to a bright and prosperous future."

"And indeed they are," Wesker agreed, without a hint of the derision he truly felt for the organisation's upper echelon in its entirety, "however, these are ambitious people also, and I fear that they will not hesitate to exploit your relative inexperience. The late Lord Spencer was a respected man among his peers and as such commanded the obedience of the management; your own influence is not as strong at this time."

"You think they might try to seize control of the company?" the blonde female queried, the pitch of her voice rising with her surprise, almost as though he had suggested something unthinkable.

"An unscrupulous individual might attempt a coup, that is a distinct possibility," he mused, leaning back in his seat and studying her coldly from behind his blackened lenses, "on the other hand, my apprehension is that they will attempt to manipulate you rather than simply assume your position of authority."

"Oh dear, I don't like the sound of that," she replied, taking another gulp of water, her slender and attractive countenance creasing with her consternation as she appeared to be mulling the problem over, "perhaps I need an objective view on the matter to make sure that no one takes advantage of me. Would you help me, Uncle?"

It was doubtful that even the most observant of individuals would have noticed the minute twitch at the corner of the older gentleman's lips as he repressed the urge to smile at how delightfully naïve his niece was, though it was purely for malicious reasons that this characteristic had prompted such a response and thus it did not affect whatever negligible affection he may or may not have felt for her one way or the other. "I am afraid that my participation in your decision-making would lead to something of a conflict of interests," he told her, seemingly apologetic, "surely you have a legal counsel to advise you in these matters?"

"Actually, Grandfather's attorney, and mine I suppose, had said that he was travelling from England for a formal reading of the last will and testament, and to oversee the estate until I had settled in," the young woman recalled, her brow still knitted as she spoke, "unfortunately, he seems to have ... erm, gone missing."

"Most unfortunate," the formally-dressed male commented, before seeming to consider the whole affair for a moment as he attempted to divine a solution, "I believe I may know of someone in my employ that could act as a personal assistant and judicial aide, of sorts. Miss Grey, the young lady who directed you to my office, is an incredibly capable woman, and I imagine that her input would permit you to make your choices confident that they were your own."

"Oh thank you, Uncle," she gushed, smiling gratefully, "although, are you sure that you won't miss her?"

"It will merely be necessary for me to reacquaint myself with the more commonplace duties that I have had her perform in recent months," he responded, granting her a reassuring nod, "I am not one who enjoys delegating their more pertinent responsibilities to subordinates, and as such I am certain that she wishes for a more stimulating environment. I will arrange the requisite documents in due course."

"Thank you, this really does make me feel so much better," she informed him.

"The pleasure is all mine," he stated, with a further bow of his head, "though we are not truly related, I feel compelled to ensure my erstwhile associate and sibling, Doctor Birkin's, only child is cared for to the best of my abilities."

"Genetics isn't as important as simply being able to trust someone, Uncle," she said wistfully, her previous levity waning somewhat, "I didn't have very many friends when I was younger; mother was really the only person who I could talk to. And then, after Raccoon City, when she and father died, the new friends that I had made left me behind. If Grandfather hadn't sent for me then I worry about what would have happened to me. Now that he is gone, I find once again that my family are the only ones that I can rely on. But, I suppose that family is family, after all; if you cannot trust them, then who can you trust?"

The tone of her words combined with her expression might have been enough to break a person's heart, such was the sound of regret in her voice; however, though Wesker obviously possessed an organ for facilitating the movement of blood through his body, it was unlikely that he also had the spiritual equivalent. If he did claim ownership of such a thing, in spite of glaring evidence to the contrary, then it was surely composed entirely of granite and intended purely for the purposes of decoration.

"Quite," he replied, as the young woman took a further mouthful from her glass, "of course, regardless of our informal association, it is my professional obligation as Chief Executive of Umbrella Incorporated to assist the Chairperson in any manner deemed necessary. I am only too happy to offer my services."

"I hope that I can make you proud of me," she told him sincerely, fixing him with her honest, sapphire eyes in a manner that would have seemed touching to anyone else.

"I am certain that you will not disappoint," he stated, before his eyes fell upon the slender form of his chestnut-haired secretary, who had appeared in the entranceway once again, "if you will excuse me momentarily, it would seem that a matter of some urgency warrants my attention."

He stood up from his seat, nodding to each of his guests in turn, and then moved to the door. The young, blonde female turned her attention to the glass that was resting before the chair where he had previously been resting, her brow knitting as she regarded the item. "Odd," she said, somewhat perplexed.

"Ma'am?" her chaperone queried, more to facilitate her conversationally than because he was actually curious.

"He pours a drink every time I meet with him, and I never see him take a sip," she explained, still staring at the container resting atop the polished surface, "and yet by the time our business is concluded, his glass is always empty."

* * *

"You wished to speak with me, my dear?" Wesker asked as he approached the female standing just outside of his study, who nodded as he came to stand on the threshold.

"A U.S.F unit has arrived, sir," she informed him, still holding the notepad in her left hand while using the other to straighten the front of her suit, "their leader has asked me to inform you that they have apprehended the individual you have been searching for."

"Indeed?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow. The small surprise that he felt at this information was derived from the fact that he had intended that particular group to perish in much the same way as the others he had dispatched to pursue his beloved Shakahnna. That the female in question had finally been captured was outside of his expectations, and admittedly somewhat disappointing. He had hoped that this particular endeavour would result in yet another video file of the young and violent redhead brutally slaying his subordinates to add to his growing collection; however, it seemed that the game had reached its conclusion. Fortunately, another was due to begin shortly.

"In that case I would ask that you extend my apologies to Lady Spencer and Mister Cooper as I will not be joining them for the remainder of their visit," he told her, "extend my full hospitality to them both, arrange a meal and make preparations for their return journey. I expect that she will be unlikely to remain here late into the evening, but a dinner alone will give her the opportunity to ponder the loyalties of the distinguished gentlemen at the helm of this company before she returns to her own estate."

"Yes sir, right away," the young woman acquiesced, flipping open her notepad and leafing through several pages of notation, before taking out her pen and scribbling down his instructions hurriedly, "will there be anything else?"

"There was one further matter," he informed his assistant before she had the opportunity to depart, "I have proposed to our young benefactor that you aid her as a legal counsel while she attempts to assert herself as this organisation's new chairperson. Her previous attorney was involved in a rather unfortunate incident that she had yet to become aware of, and it was my pleasure to advocate you for the position. Months of faithful service should not go unrewarded, after all."

"Thank you, sir," she said appreciatively, closing her notebook and clutching it in both hands, before bowing graciously.

"Keep in mind that, should you need guidance, it would be my obligation as your former employer to offer my assistance, if at all necessary," he replied, to which she nodded again, electing not to continue speaking, "now if you will excuse me, I have other engagements to keep."

He swept past her as he excused himself, hearing her move to enter the study and make the necessary excuses to his visitors. Striding at a steady pace through the halls of his dwelling, he took a moment to reflect on the décor. As a man of practicality, Wesker was not known for his passion for interior decorating, though the late Ozwell Spencer's narcissism had introduced him to several men with such flair. Fortunately, this was not a building that the blond's father figure had influenced in any way, and it was for this reason that it lacked the customary self-indulgent decadence of the older, and now deceased, gentleman's other estates. There were no portraits depicting notable ancestors or, more distastefully, himself lining the walls, though he had never known his parents and as such knew nothing of his own lineage, nor were their any needlessly intricate devices used to ensure the secrecy of the mansion's hidden chambers. Having navigated through most of the former Lord's places of residence, he knew that a logical man was more than capable of avoiding those particular difficulties with the minimum of exertion, and thus he favoured barred metal doors and lengthy combinations over his adoptive father's more pretentious methods of maintaining security. He felt that they were considerably more reliable.

The soldier who had wished for an audience with him was standing in the foyer of his grand dwelling, evidently having been led there by a member of his staff to await the host. Upon seeing Wesker approach he snapped to attention and gave a salute, as was customary among U.S.F soldiers, though the executive had yet to meet a man whose discipline matched that of the legendary James Cooper. He was a tall and heavily built individual, though he was of course dwarfed by his superior's own enormous physique, and wore the generic black uniform of the average Special Forces operative. The larger of the two men raised an eyebrow quizzically as he approached, attempting to divine the reason for this individual's success where so many others had failed. Unfortunately, he could see no reason why the dark-haired male occupying the lobby had been capable of finally capturing his coveted object of obsession. Ignoring his doubts about the man's abilities for the time being he paused in his stride several feet from the new arrival.

"And you are?" he queried, as the solider returned to a resting position.

"Sergeant Black, sir," he responded, extending his hand in greeting, "Lucas Black."

"Indeed," the businessman said, regarding the outstretched limb blankly as his guest realised that he was not going to shake it and retracted it wordlessly before he continued, "my assistant has brought me auspicious tidings, Sergeant. I trust that she was correct in her assertions as to the success of the mission."

"The objective was achieved within the set parameters, as per your instructions," he announced, turning his head as the older of the two began to walk past him, before realising that the Chief Executive was leading him elsewhere and moved to follow him, "she didn't sustain anything greater than superficial injuries in her struggle, nor will she experience any side effects from the tranquilizer we used. We took her to the lower level as you requested."

"I had expected as much," he informed the other male, by way of explanation as to the location they were currently travelling to, "tell me, how was this operation achieved? Were there casualties?"

"Originally we planned to use a sedative administered from a distance using a rifle," he responded, his voice taking on the first vestiges of dread at the information that he was about to impart, "unfortunately, she was a better marksman than we gave her credit for and she took out the man with the rifle before we could get a clear shot. After that we tried to catch her by force, but she slaughtered my unit to a man. Fortunately I managed to get one shot off with the tranquilizer at point blank before she killed me too. I had another unit on standby just in case the operation went awry, so they helped me tie her up and bring her here. The other group is with her now."

Wesker shot a sidelong glance at the other man as he struggled to keep pace with his gargantuan superior, taking note of the fresh dressing covering his throat and entire right arm. It seemed that the chemical that had rendered his beloved unconscious had taken affect not a moment too soon for the younger individual. "An effort worthy of commendation, Sergeant," he congratulated, "out of curiosity, I wonder if you could tell me how many of your twelve subordinates were castrated before they met their demise."

"Five of them, sir," he answered, his brow furrowing as he did so, "but why do you ask?"

"I merely wished to ensure that you had apprehended the correct female," he said dismissively, falling silent as they came to the top of a flight of stairs leading downstairs, the décor changing from elegant to clinical, autumnal colours becoming a bland, sterile white on the walls, floor and ceiling. They began to descend wordlessly, neither of them willing to entertain the concept of small talk.

The lengthy decline opened out into a small room at its lowest point, the basement area decorated in a similar fashion to the stairwell that connected it to his residence. To the right was a passage that led past numerous doors, behind which lay various other chambers, and eventually came out elsewhere on the grounds, a place that contained the helicopter landing pad where his subordinates had no doubt disembarked with their burden upon their arrival. On the left was a large metal vault door that spanned an entire section of the wall, with a keypad and various other devices located beside it. The soldiers comprising the second unit, who still seemed answerable to Sergeant Black, looked up to acknowledge the presence of their superiors from their position surrounding the redhead, the captive girl lying curled in the foetal position, unconscious, and with her hands and feet bound tightly with plastic strips that bit into her skin, secured as they were. Wesker strode past the cluster of armed individuals and stooped to inspect his latest acquisition. Her scent was familiar: a combination of blood, sweat and, surprisingly enough, cherries that had been ingrained into his memory upon their last, brief, meeting. When he brushed aside the fiery strands that hid her face he was pleased to find the young lady with whom he had become so fixated. Of course, she still believed him to be deceased; the following moments would prove most gratifying.

"Please assist Miss Morgan into this chamber, gentlemen," he commanded, his words evidently an order in spite of how they had been phrased. As the soldiers gathered around her, the black-clad, virally-enhanced male approached the impenetrable door to the left and withdrew a card from his jacket pocket. It was blank, save for the magnetic strip that identified its purpose as a key, and he summarily slid it through the groove beside the bulkhead before entering the combination on the pad that was situated directly adjacent. The string of digits was several hundred items long; fortunately, Albert Wesker did not forget.

With the input of the correct code, the door shuddered as the locks within rotated and decompressed, before the entire panel slid downwards into a deep recess in the floor. Passing over the threshold, it could be seen that the entryway had been guarded by a sheet of metal verging on one foot thick, which would have been a considerable hindrance to anyone attempting to force their way in or out. The pseudo-aristocratic blond stood aside as the men moved the prone body of his beloved into the room, setting her down gently. Perhaps they misconstrued his courtesy for fondness, and as such did not wish to incur his wrath by dropping her any more roughly. It was doubtful that they would have had the time to regret doing so if it had indeed been something to earn his ire. Once they had deposited her onto the sterile white linoleum that composed the floor of the room, he casually adjusted the sunglasses adorning the bridge of his nose.

"Leave us," he said, the statement prompting a momentary glance between the soldiers that was entirely uneasy on the part of all fourteen, the two commanding officers included.

"You heard the man, dismissed," Black's fellow Sergeant barked at the unit under his leadership as the ranking superior took the lead out of the sterile space. They filed out silently to the chamber's exterior, Wesker pressing the switch for the door's release mechanism as the last man exited and watching as the bulkhead rose to obscure the view from one area to the other.

The Chief Executive began to smile as he advanced towards the crumpled heap that was Shakahnna, reaching slowly into the folds of his jacket to withdraw the blade hanging just below his left arm. His steps soft and measured, he came to within inches of her before crouching again, bringing the knife to the bond around her wrists and cutting it away, before doing the same to the similar strip that was tying her ankles. The soldiers had removed her boots and the socks underneath so that she had no room to move within the ties, and as such they left angry purple blemishes on the skin beneath. With that task accomplished he placed his knife back into the recesses of his clothing and sat back on his haunches before he began to speak, quietly but firmly.

"Shakahnna," he said flatly, "wake up."

* * *

In the void between sleep and wakefulness, there was a Shak. As she began to regain consciousness, promising to herself that she'd kick the individual responsible for her departure from the land of up and about firmly in the testicles, she thought she could hear a voice. This was, of course, nonsense, as the redheaded death machine didn't let anyone else in her room, _especially _while she slept. Maybe, and she realised that this was probably a long shot, the ordeal with Umbrella had all been a really bad dream and she'd wake up next to... Well, that or her mind was playing tricks on her. She opened her eyes, letting them adjust to the harsh lighting of the room, before the emerald green orbs finally locked upon a familiar pair of dark-tinted shades. There was a moment of silence as the young woman matched blank stares with the man before her, the list of possible courses of action for her to follow coming to a grand total of none, before something that she could only describe as blind rage rose up in the pit of her stomach and she launched herself towards him screaming incoherently.

He recoiled quickly as she lunged, grunting as her first punch shattered his sunglasses and collapsed the cartilage in his nose with a wet crunch, preceding a second powerful strike that hammered into his rib cage with a rather suspect crack, which he dutifully ignored as he firmly encircled both of her wrists in his hands and forced her backwards into the wall. Knowing what had happened last time he had held her against the wall she began to struggle and squirm with all the strength she could muster, though admittedly she was still somewhat groggy from the sedative and her head was pounding from where she had fallen backwards onto it immediately after that drug had been administered, so this was not her best effort. Almost immediately, he stepped forward, pressing his body against hers in a bid to bring an end to the erratic movements. It had the desired effect when she became momentarily stunned.

"You're dead," she informed him eventually, ignoring the evidence that was comprised of the warm and exceptionally muscular figure pressed to her own.

"You are mistaken," he responded, and in all fairness, with overwhelming support for his statement, mainly stemming from the fact that he could make such a claim at all without doing so through a spirit medium. Even as she continued to glare at him, the purplish hue haunting the centre of his face faded completely and his features realigned to the same slender, ageless form that they had taken previously. It reminded her that the man before her was one of those people who never died, no matter how many times you, to all intents and purposes, killed them. Initially that had made him attractive, a partner who could take the punishment just as well as he could dish it out, an equal and a challenge that she had been without for almost her entire life, but now it was frightening. Who honestly wanted a man like Wesker, capable of such monstrous handiwork, that couldn't be stopped?

"Where am I?" she queried, reasoning that she should know so that she could work out which direction to run in after she had burned the place down.

"My estate," he answered, to which she let out a snort of derision.

"Your interior decorator is shit," said Shakahnna Morgan, renowned architectural critic, "unless you did it yourself, in which case he's a toilet-faced horse's arse too. So what was the plan, _Albert_? Murder all her friends, rip her face off and then back to my place for coffee?"

"There will be no coffee, dearest," he stated, making her wonder if perhaps he was being as wide as she was. She had to give him a hand for trying in spite of his overwhelming disadvantage, that being that he wasn't her. "However, I would advise that you attempt to find a redeeming feature in this décor, as you will be here for quite some time," he continued, this second point causing her to frown up at him before she realised what he had intended to convey and began to thrash madly again in his grip.

She didn't see the hand that struck her, but felt it slam into her mouth, splitting her lip and shaking her skull in a manner that didn't agree with the injury she had already sustained to that area. Before she regained her balance, however, she was spun on the spot and forced face first into the wall, her cranium bouncing on the solid surface in a fashion that might have left her concussed as she came to rest with her cheek pressed against the white stone before her. Her arms were forced up so that her palms were flat on the vertical surface and her feet were kicked apart so that she was standing in what seemed to be a search position. Sure enough, the blond's hands came to rest upon her shoulders and moved with firm presses up the length of her upper arm.

"Huh?" Shak queried groggily as he began to pat her down.

"A minor formality, dear heart," he informed her, as he reached the end the short sleeves on her navy blue uniform shirt and drew them back to inspect the skin beneath. A satisfied hum issued from his pursed lips, his sudden interest causing her to balk as she shot a glance at her own flesh in a bid to find out what it was that had caught his eye, before she flushed bright scarlet, noticing the relatively fresh trails criss-crossing that area. "You wound yourself over and over, and to what end?" he questioned, his scrutiny making her all the more self-conscious, "perhaps in reminiscence of our short time together?"

"Its got nothing to do with you," she snapped, and likely would have attacked him for a second time had he not anticipated such a movement and held her tightly in place, though she continued to glare at him out of the corners of her eyes. The line of ragged scar tissue running from her mouth to her right ear gave the impression that she was snarling at him, though her own facial features were set in a mere frown. The medical personnel who worked for S.T.A.R.S had used an aggressive and painful treatment to heal the wound so that she could return to field work as soon as possible at her own behest. They had essentially welded the two pieces of her cheek back together, fused them with fire to both sterilise it and fix the damage her black-clad tormentor had done. It had culminated in a frightening and grotesque parody of the smile that had once been her default expression, something that she realised made the other members of her organisation wary of her.

If she were telling the truth then the new scars decorating her bulky arms had everything to do with him. They were penance, a ritual of suffering in apology to her deceased team mates, whom she had failed by allowing them to die. Objectively she knew that there was little that could have been done to save them, and that the blame lay squarely at his feet, but she also knew that even if he had been alive he would not have apologised, or even acknowledged his sin. Someone needed to do something, to balance Karma or maintain the status quo, and she felt it incumbent upon her as the sole survivor; it was the least she could do for them, and physical pain was a language that she was fluent in. He said as nothing he began to unclip the straps on her tactical vest, his movements provoking a blush and a deep scowl at the same time.

"What are you searching for?" she asked, his fingers nimbly unhooking the clasps at her shoulders, before falling to her midriff to do the same there.

"I would have thought that much would be obvious, my dear," he replied flatly, as the second set of fasteners were undone and the front piece of her armour came away from the top beneath, allowing him to remove it from her with relative ease and cast it aside.

"You know I can't hurt you," she said, to which he did not offer any response. His hands encircled her torso and tore away the Velcro that was securing the rear part of the tactical vest, and then made the transition to the two similar straps that were fixed around her shoulders. It was at this point that the redhead realised the true reason for his search and snorted for the second time since she had woken up. "Don't flatter yourself; I wouldn't kill myself over you," she told him, her voice dripping with contempt, "besides, now that I know you can die more than once I can _really _make you pay for my peoples that you be'd killing. I wouldn't wanna kill me until I'd done you at least a dozen more times."

He stripped her of the jacket at last, throwing away the second piece of the item before he began to speak again. "In spite of your fervour," he began, running his off hand through his hair in an attempt to maintain its impeccable arrangement, "you may find that your opinion is subject to change."

"Get bent," she insisted, as his hands came to rest on her shoulders for the second time, before coasting softly down her back, following the curvature of her physique as he attempted to locate any items sewn into the fabric of her outfit. Whether that was his only intention or not was not clear to the young woman undergoing the process, though she was willing to suffer the discomfort for the opportunity to lull him into a false sense of security and seize the upper hand if she were offered such a moment.

"Your sentiments being what they are, I will spare you the indignity of a full cavity search," he informed her, his neutral tone making her unsure of how serious this statement was. If he had expected gratitude for that dubious courtesy, however, then he was due to suffer a disappointment.

"That's disgusting," she spat vehemently, throwing herself into her indignation with as much force as she could muster in an attempt to beat back the butterflies rising in her stomach as his hands traversed her sides.

"Quite," he agreed, allowing his hands to slip from her underarms to the area just beneath her collar bone, before following the swell of her chest, the tips of his fingers tracing the inner curve while his thumbs did the same for the outermost edges, this movement provoking an increase in the fluttering occupying her gut as well as the burning sensation in her face as she flushed bright red. It took her a moment to realise that his systematic massaging of her person had moved down to the upper part of her midriff, though even this thought did little to shake the embarrassment from her features.

Shak would rather have been fighting zombies at this point; at least they didn't try to grope her. She corrected herself. Okay, sometimes they did, but not because they wanted her. She rejected that thought too. Of course, _everyone _wanted her, but the undead certainly wouldn't get it, now, would they? With the possible exception of that female Tyrant she had blown up a while back, and scored fifty points for, she asserted that they would not. But then, if Wesker _would _get it, what was the problem? It occurred to her that she wouldn't even let herself win an argument, and maybe that was why no one liked her. Wait! That was wrong too. Everyone liked her; even the ones who didn't seem to were only confused and yet to realise it, or were denying their true feelings. Which was silly, since who was more open to affection than her? Emotional affection, that was, physical affection got you knocked out. She nodded inwardly, congratulating herself on reaching the correct conclusion. She was startled from her reverie by the man searching her form running his hands up her inner thighs.

"Hey! Keep your hands to yourself or I'll chop them off!" she snapped, though admittedly it was perhaps a little too late for threats like that, especially in lieu of the fact that he already possessed an intimate knowledge of her curvature at this point, "dirty fudge slut that thou art."

"My apologies," he said, finishing his search by patting along her calves firmly. When he found nothing secreted away on her person, he returned to his standing position behind her and gripped the back of her head roughly, dragging her away from the wall and shoving her in the direction of another large steel door opposite the one that they had originally entered. "Move," he commanded flatly, watching as she stumbled slightly before turning back to face him, unwilling to allow him to remain outside of her field of vision any longer.

"Whatever happened to acting the gentleman?" she asked sardonically, sneering in a manner that gave the blood running from her lip and the healed tear in her face an innately sinister and threatening air.

"When last we met it was under less formal circumstances, and as such I could afford to entertain your wishes to be treated as a lady," he stated, advancing towards her with an aim to remind her of which of them was the physical superior, but only succeeding in forcing her to crane her neck in order to glare at him. He smiled inwardly, having expected as much; she would not be intimated in such a manner. "You are now my captive, however, and no such courtesy will be extended toward you," he continued, his facial expression still as neutral as ever, "you will do as I insist or suffer the consequences of your defiance."

"Bring it on, bitch," she insisted, her previously derisive grace becoming a perverse leer.

"As you wish," he said, his own tone remaining as emotionless as his features. The redhead set her feet apart and raised her fists with every intention of resisting him, only for him to surge forward at a speed that her eyes could not follow, let alone her body, and strike her in such a manner that for a moment she thought she'd stepped onto a drag strip during a race. She flew backwards, the impact catching her in the stomach and sending her slamming into the wall several yards behind, where she was caught by the concrete and given to gravity so that she could become best friends with the floor. "I trust that this has been a learning experience for you, my dear," the blond commented, straightening in the aftermath of the blow and adjusting his hair where it had become loosened by the sudden burst of motion.

"Fuck you," she groaned from her pile of S.T.A.R.S member on the ground.

He moved to the control panel and removed the security card from his jacket pocket, swiping it through the reader affixed to the wall and entering the combination as he had done with the previous entranceway. No sooner had the door descended than he was struck in the back with the full weight of the young redhead. Perhaps it had been her intention to knock him into the corridor beyond and shut the door behind him, or possibly, with him still on its threshold. Whatever her motives, the scheme had failed due to the fact that he was quite literally built like a brick outhouse. For the second time in as many minutes, Shak felt like she had run into a concrete wall, though she herself didn't know whether to feel glad or embarrassed that the latter impact had been a product of her own will rather than because something else had exerted control over her.

He turned on the spot and reached out to take hold of her, only for her to kick out at him violently. Unfortunately, Wesker's finely honed reflexes permitted him to simply seize her right ankle and turn to drag her across the length of the new hallway. Sliding across the floor on her back, she began to stamp repeatedly on his wrist and the back of his hand with her free foot in a bid to earn her release, though finding this exceedingly difficult without boots on, and thus with a distinct disadvantage against his resilient skin. He ignored her struggles as he continued to lead her by the leg towards the portal at its very end, in which he intended her to enjoy the fullness of his hospitality. To say that she was opposed to this concept was something of an understatement.

As he stopped at the passage's end to open the door on the farthest wall, she twisted in his grasp, bringing her hands up to claw at the flesh of his wrist, before folding at the waist and beginning to gnaw at him feverishly. He grunted as she bit deeply into the muscle on the back of his hand, her teeth severing fibres and causing blood to spurt from the wound, the fluid running the length of his fingers and flooding her mouth as she mauled him. Wrenching his arm away from her and involuntarily causing her to rip a sinewy chunk from the surrounding meat, he drew back his bloodied appendage and caught her a stinging backhand across the face, the blow slapping the torn piece from between her lips and possibly dislocating her jaw. Suitably dazed, Shakahnna sat in place as her captor returned his attention to the door, her only movement being to turn her eyes to the discarded lump that had been forcibly removed from his body as it began to wither and decay almost immediately. The taste in her mouth became stale and bitter as the male's loose cells began to break down at an accelerated rate.

A hand seized her under the arm and dragged her to her feet, pulling her into a position that placed her back flush to the toned abdomen of her tormentor, who gripped her firmly under the chin in order to direct her attention towards the newly opened chamber's interior. What she saw was simply a sterile, white rectangular room, without any doors or windows, or any other kind of decoration. In short, it was boring. The redhead was not impressed.

"I hope that you will enjoy your rest, my dear," the blond said, as she began to struggle, "when you awaken I will feel obliged to extend the courtesy of my abode to you, and you may not find the experience to be a pleasant one. Of course, who is to say?"

"Wha-?" the S.T.A.R.S operative began, before she was pushed forward and dealt a concussive blow to the back of the head. She stumbled, her vision blurring, before she slumped to the linoleum beneath her feet, groaned heavily, and passed out.


	4. Episode Two Point Two

**Episode Two Point Two: Don't Cry To Me, Oh Baby**

_Six months earlier..._

Shakahnna had been sleeping. It was a nice, dreamless sleep, the kind that she was especially fond of. She would have been quite content to remain that way for quite some time, perhaps indefinitely, particularly considering the last twenty four hours; unfortunately, fate conspired against her and she was woken up when someone dragged back the curtains to her room. Her body tensed suddenly and her eyes screwed shut in response to the sudden influx of bright, natural sunlight; it seemed to be a good day outside, but it was not one that the young redhead had any desire to be a part of at that current moment. Sinking into the covers on her bunk, she pulled the sheets up around her body as a cocoon where she was warm and comfortable, isolated from the outside world that seemed to be encroaching in on her privacy and personal space with this interruption. She felt terrible. Her eyelids were heavy and the green orbs behind them were bleary and unfocused, while her throat was dry and her skin was covered in a thin layer of grime caused by the exertion of the day before. The split in her face was raw and bloody, the feel of it inordinately painful, complimenting the overall ache in her body that was most prominent in her ribcage where several of the bones therein had been broken. There was a familiar burning on her upper arms as well, though she did her best to ignore that.

It occurred to her that there should not have been someone else in her private quarters, and so she slipped one blood-stained hand from her makeshift bundle and gently rubbed the sleep from her eyes so that she could see the person who had entered the chamber where she had been sleeping. The intruder was a slender brunette clad in a white t-shirt and weathered blue jeans, clutching a mess of the prone woman's clothing under one arm while stooping to collect a ruddy uniform shirt with one sleeve missing and add it to the collection that she was forming. The female was in her early twenties and exceptionally pretty, particularly in the luminescence from the window that made the chestnut fibres of her hair shimmer brightly about the soft skin of her face, and the stout soldier was pleased to be with a familiar and unthreatening presence. Smiling affectionately, Amanda Decker straightened as she gathered up her friend's top, before using her free hand to casually brush aside the auburn strands caressing her cheeks. In spite of her warm nature, Lieutenant Morgan could not help but feel distinctly uncomfortable. Perhaps this was because her boyfriend of more years than could be remembered had been murdered on the previous evening by the gamine's own, now-deceased paramour, and the youth still laboured under considerable guilt for that fact. She pulled the sheet covering her body up past her nose so that only her emerald eyes and flame-red hair could still be seen.

"Your room's such a mess, Shak," the young woman said fondly, moving across the room to deposit her load into a hamper in the corner of the room before turning back to look around the reasonably-sized apartment's main chamber and see what else could be done.

"Cleaning up's boring," she replied, the croak in her voice reflecting the dryness of her throat. In spite of her sentiments, she still maintained the upkeep of her dwelling quite regularly, as the rooms would have been in a greater disarray if not, due to the presence of her pet cat. The gentle upward curve of the other female's lips remained as she paused, bringing a finger up to rest upon the lower part of her mouth as she pondered the statement.

"I suppose you have more important things to do," she mused, moving her hands to rest upon her hips, "I hope you don't mind, but I'm used to picking up after Matt and now that he's ... gone ... well, our place seems kind of empty."

"Its okay," the redhead murmured, still hiding under her covers as the other woman began to bustle about the room searching for cleaning products with which to brighten the area up. After a moment, she paused and shot a glance at her incumbent host.

"You didn't forget that you had an appointment with the medical team this morning, did you?" she queried, the concern in her voice evident. For her part, Shakahnna was relatively embarrassed that the female seemed to know her timetable better than she did. She shrank deeper still into her duvet.

"No," she lied meekly, her voice muffled by the covers around the lower part of her face that brushed abrasively against the wound in her features and became stained with dried blood. In truth, she had no desire to see the group that served their organisation's physical health needs whether she had a hole in her cheek or not; her account of the previous night's events had not been well received by her superiors and she didn't particularly want to have to tell the story any more. Enough people didn't believe her version of events as it was. "Do not want," she murmured.

"Oh come on, Shak, don't be like that," Amy said, moving to the bed and crouching in front of her so that their eyes were level and shooting her a sympathetic look, "the sooner you get this done the quicker you'll be back to doing the things you like to do. Now get out of bed, lazy."

She moved away, returning to her bustling as she located an unused can of furniture polish and a pack of cloths that had yet to be opened in an otherwise empty draw, before using them to dust the various fittings that had been provided by the group of which they were both members. The redhead wriggled her face out from under the covers and lay for a moment as the other female continued to clean the surroundings and order her various possessions, which she reminded herself to reorder once she had left, as she was already pleased with how they were. A thought occurred to her and her nose wrinkled as it caused her a degree of vexation.

"How did you get in?" she asked, to which the younger of the two women turned on the spot and offered her another affectionate smile.

"You left the door unlocked," the brunette informed her simply, before returning to her task, "good job you're among friends, huh?"

The flame-haired imp broke out in a cold sweat at that thought, certainly not liking the implications of being so out of it that she was forgetting to lock her own door. The sensation of the sudden chill on her skin mingled with the feel of the drying blood that was coating her body and the fabric pressed against it alike, and she reasoned that even if she was loath to visit the doctors that S.T.A.R.S employed, she should at least shower and perhaps apply some bandages. The physicians already believed her to be a raging weirdo and had numerous reasons to place her on psychiatric evaluation without further incentive to do so provided by her own hand. She sat up under her sheets and rotated her body to bring her feet out into the open air, before wriggling her toes and setting them down on the floor. Her movement dislodged a ball of black fur from the top of her covers, which mewed softly and hopped down onto the carpet, where it stretched into the shape of a sleek, ebony cat, which then proceeded to weave around her ankles. She yawned and rubbed at her eyes, not yet able to shake off the sluggishness of her recent awakening, though she was still capable of being startled when her auburn-topped visitor gave a sudden intake of breath and dropped the can in her hand onto the carpet, which sent the purring feline at the base of her legs shooting under the bed. Shakahnna glanced up to see the slender female placing her hands to her mouth as the yellow sheet of fabric she had been using to wipe down the wooden furnishings fluttered to the floor.

"Oh my God, what happened?" she exclaimed, as the older of the pair shot a look at the rapidly cooling blood that was soaking into the sheet where she had previously been lying, and then at the criss-cross of newly-formed and bleeding scars lining her uncovered right arm. Amy continued to stare, her mouth open in a perfect circle of horror as she made the connection between the spilt crimson and the recent wounds. Her face became a mask of mixed emotions, none of which were particularly positive.

"I'm sorry," the gamine cried out in response, getting the feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was in trouble and about to receive a telling off.

"What have you done to your arms?" the guest in the room asked, seeming to ignore the apology though thankfully not sounding quite as harsh as another person might have, instead seeming more concerned than angry. Having kept her propensity for self-harm a closely-guarded secret from everyone in general, she wasn't used to having to explain herself to anyone. On top of that, she was finding it awkward to adapt to the sudden change of someone she perceived as a younger sister suddenly behaving like her mother.

"I was trying to make things better," the redhead asserted, attempting to help the other woman understand her motives as best she could in spite of the fact that she had never done so for another person before, "I couldn't protect them, so..."

She trailed off, drawing her knees up to her chin and huddling in her blankets once again, ignoring the considerable discomfort that was caused by the abundance of her own life fluid drenching them. The taller female ran a hand over her face, sighing as she contemplated what she could say in response. "For fuck's sake, Shak," she said eventually, the rare expletive causing the bloodied host to flinch, before she settled herself and continued, "you aren't to blame; you didn't kill them. Even if they could blame you, they wouldn't, and they especially wouldn't want you to hurt yourself over it."

"But I..." she began, stopping dead as the brunette crouched down in front of her and placed her hands gently atop her stout friend's own as they held her legs in to her body, the soft and delicate touch of the longer, more slender fingers contrasting with the relatively calloused feel of the fighter's digits.

"And you can't apologise because I might start to think that you're at fault, even if I know objectively that you aren't," the girl pointed out, this remark quieting the other's objections. With that accomplished, she straightened again and retrieved her cleaning products from the floor, evidently with a mind to continue her circuit of the guilt-ridden female's chambers.

"I don't think anyone believes me," she muttered, keeping her arms wrapped around the upper part of her calves and beginning to rock back and forth in a manner that was innately soothing to her.

"About the man in black?" Amy questioned, eliciting a nod from the seated individual in spite of the fact that she was currently turned away, "I believe you, if it's any consolation."

"It does be, thankee," the older woman commented gratefully. Only Captain Shawn had been willing to entertain her more unusual eccentricities and the other commanding officers in charge of her specific detachment had been only too eager to tell her that Umbrella wasn't capable of creating monsters like Albert Wesker. The thought that anyone considered her capable of murdering men she thought to be her friends was like a kick in the stomach from the human B.O.W himself.

"You should go and get cleaned up, maybe put some bandages on your arms, and get ready for your appointment," the mother-sister combination suggested, causing the seated female to grip her legs that much tighter.

"Do not want," she stated again, this comment prompting the chestnut-haired beauty to turn around and fix her with an expression of insistence, two damp tracks running the length of her cheeks from her eyes in spite of her efforts to prevent them from appearing.

"You know, when the virus started spreading a lot of people lost friends and family, and a lot of those people gravitated to S.T.A.R.S so that they could get revenge for that, which is a good reason, I guess," she recounted, "but I didn't join this organisation because of that. Matt was the only one who mattered to me and he kept me safe, so I didn't have a reason to want revenge. I joined because it was the right thing to do, and he joined because I did. He didn't really believe in what we were doing, but he did it for me. If anyone's to blame for what happened to him then it's probably me."

"Don't say that," Shakahnna insisted, subdued by what she perceived as an unnecessary confession for a sin not committed, "be's wrong. Be's silly."

The brunette set the items in her hands atop the chest of drawers behind her and placed her lower back against the edge, gripping the rim of the now-polished surface with her hands as she stood facing her friend. "Two peas in a pod, huh?" she noted, giving a sad smile, to which the redhead nodded as enthusiastically as possible to show that she very much considered them close friends, "that was actually kind of a tangent; I had a point to make."

"Huh?" the oldest of the pair queried, tilting her head as she did so.

"I became a member of S.T.A.R.S because I wanted justice to be served," she continued, using the back of her hand to wipe the tears from her face, "and in the whole time I've been here, of all the people I've met, you're the one person I know who's most capable of making sure that happens. You have to do it for me and Matt, and Sage and Captain Dresden, because you owe it to them to make sure that the cause they died for is realised. Right?"

The flame-haired fighter was silent for a moment that seemed longer than it actually was as neither individual spoke a word, until eventually she allowed her feet to slip to the floor and looked up at the other female. "Uhuh," she conceded.

"Thanks Shak," the girl responded, this time offering her friend a smile of a happier kind, "now get ready and I'll take you to your appointment, okay?"

It occurred to the senior that, though she detested her dealings with the medical team employed by her group, and was incredibly vocal of such, she was both old enough and independent enough not to need to hold someone's hand once she had eventually agreed to attend. There was something about Amy's demeanour, however, that suggested that even if that were the case, she desperately needed a hand to hold. It made sense when one considered that, for the past several years, perhaps even longer, the sylph-like brunette had been picking up after and generally being sensible for her lumbering significant other. Now that he was dead, the redhead may have been the only person left in her life for her to care for. It would likely drive her up the fucking wall having someone to depend on considering that she had made a point of maintaining her self-reliance, but as her penance had not been so well-received she reasoned that she still owed the younger woman something by way of apology.

"Okay," she murmured in agreement, adjusting the duvet around her form so that it acted as an improvised robe and standing up from the bed, revealing the extent of her bleeding, a wide patch of deep red spanning the entirety of the horizontal surface, soaking the sheet and most likely permanently staining the mattress beneath. She made her way to the bathroom at the other end of the chamber, prepared to take the "Bates' Motel" shower she had needed since the night before and then do what needed to be done so that she could return to active duty.

In her wake, Amy made her way into the kitchen, followed closely by Sub-Zero the cat who suspected that he was getting fed. Things weren't hopeless, but her life had unravelled in a way that left it irreparably damaged, and for the time being at least she was doing her best to ignore the utter devastation that was gnawing away at her insides.

* * *

_Present day, present time..._

Lieutenant Morgan's face was aching when she returned to consciousness. This might have been because she had landed on it prior to her being knocked out, or because the floor was so fucking hard and uncomfortable. She made a note to demonstrate this fact to Wesker by slamming his head into it repeatedly when he next showed up. She opened her eyes to the uninterrupted white of the cell that she was currently dwelling in, allowing them to become accustomed to the brilliant fluorescence of the lighting overhead, before placing her palms flat on the floor beneath her and lifting herself up, determined to get her bearings and then escape if possible. Unfortunately, she quickly became aware that she was not alone in the chamber, and identified her black-clad host standing some yards away soon thereafter. Though evidently not pleased to see him, her reaction to his presence was not as immediately violent as it had been before, partly from a sense of realism, knowing that she would be hard-pressed to actually to hurt him, and also due to her own curiosity as to his motives.

"You are awake," he said flatly as she stirred from her position on the floor, without making any motion in her direction for the moment, "I trust that you are well-rested, my dear."

"Fuck off," she grunted, glaring at him. He was wearing a similar black business suit to the one that he had been wearing previously, those parts that had become blood-stained having been replaced, and he had chosen a new, unbroken pair of sunglasses. She noticed that he was also wearing an expression of subtle self-satisfaction, and that coupled with the sight of the duralumin briefcase in his right hand instilled a deep sense of foreboding in her. He gave no reaction to her outburst, instead simply continuing to regard her from his position several yards away. The luminescence from the ceiling glanced from the dark lenses in front of his eyes, giving him a sinister and detached air that was an infinite truth of his personality.

"I would not dream of being so discourteous to one in my hospitality," he informed her, striding past her as she came to a crouching position on the floor, her eyes following him suspiciously as he moved to the chamber's opposing side.

His hand pressed on a section of the wall, seeking a join that was invisible to her eyes but which produced a shelf that extended at waist height from the vertical surface, before he set the metallic case on top of it. Shakahnna eyed the latest furnishing to be introduced to the sparse area, aware that there had been no sign of it prior to Wesker's intervention, and couldn't help but wonder what other surprises the cell he had placed her in held hidden. There was another part of her that pondered how she could use those hidden extras to her advantage when fighting the man who seemed determined to make her suffer in as imaginative a fashion as he could manage. This was all combined with the fact that she was intensely curious as to the contents of the container he had appropriated during the time that she was unconscious. Climbing to her feet, the redhead stood guardedly as he rotated the locks on either side of the item's handle so that they were open, and then lifted the lid, bringing it to an open position at a ninety degree angle to the lower half.

"What be's that?" she asked, attempting to crane her neck and view the contents. Though he made no attempt to block her view, she could not see much within, and what she could see did not make much sense to her.

"Your induction," he told her in response, almost as though that was supposed to make sense to her. It did not, and only succeeded in making her all the more perplexed in regards to what he had in mind.

Without another word, he began to remove items from the case in front of him, setting them to the side while he prepared his torture. There was what appeared to be a bottle fashioned from steel with a nozzle and small wheel attached to its top, and several long, metal rods, each with a wider, flattened tip at their ends. She frowned, not quite making the connection between the various tools until he took up the strange tank, turned the wheel and ignited a flame at the end of the tube that sprouted from the end. It was at that point that she identified the collection of thin poles as brands. Though she found the general concept to be intriguing, in the current context she was nothing short of appalled.

"Nu uh, I'm not playing this game," she announced, turning her head away from him, though sneaking a sidelong glance in his direction as he selected one of the irons from the selection upon the table. Her attention was dragged back to his position in spite of her attempts to remain disaffected by what he was doing. "You first," she suggested, folding her arms over her chest and glowering at him, doing the best she could to suppress any memory of what they had done the last time she had been conscious.

He turned to fix her with his hidden eyes, one brow arched over his sunglasses as he regarded her coolly, before he reached up to take hold of his tie in both hands. "As you wish," he acquiesced passively, pulling the knot loose before unthreading it with nimble fingers. He removed the length of silk from around his collar, folding it in half in the air, then into quarters, and then into eighths, before laying it beside the briefcase. With that done, he shrugged off his blazer and set that down also.

"What are you doing?" she asked, somewhat incredulously as her face began to flush, watching as his hands traversed the front of his shirt, slowly unbuttoning it with a sense of almost leisurely disregard for her presence.

"I am inclined to acquiesce to your wishes," the executive explained, as he removed the lower part of his tailored garment from where it was tucked neatly into a similarly well-fitting pair of black trousers. "Understand that I am not a man who regularly favours disrobing in full view of others, Miss Morgan, however, one should have no secrets from one's lover" he continued, leaving the upper portion of his attire where it was, the parting at the middle revealing an abdomen that was exceptionally chiselled, making the young woman blush that much harder in spite of herself and regardless of what indignation she felt at his words, "I hope that you will forgive me if I refrain from doing lasting damage to areas of my body that might be conspicuous to others."

The young lady placed her hands over her face so that her fingers were covering her eyes, but could not help but allow her curiosity to get the better of her, a narrow gap between her middle and index digit on her right hand filling with the bright green of her iris as she peeked out. "Do what you want," she murmured from behind her palms.

The slightest of smiles played across his pale lips as he took up one of the brands and held the flattened end to the tongue of flame whispering ceaselessly from the bottle that contained its fuel. The metal quickly made the transition from gentle scarlet to warm orange, before rapidly transforming into bright yellow and finishing on sheer white, so bright that it matched the surrounding décor. With the desired temperature acquired, he lifted the rod away from the torch and twisted it in his grip, bringing it around in his right hand in order to aim it at his hairless midriff. He cast her a glance in order to ensure that she was still watching, though he knew that she invariably would be, before drawing aside the left hand portion of his shirt with the appendage of the same side and quickly forcing the circular section at the tip of the handle onto the skin beneath.

There was a hissing noise as it made contact, the smouldering end pressing into his flesh, the extreme heat withering and corroding layers of tissue. The surrounding area began to bubble and blister, while the blood that seeped from the burnt sores evaporated immediately and became sweet-yet-foul smelling steam in the air. The muscles lining his stomach went rigid and tense as the iron seared him, the sensation of it acutely painful and the mastery of that stimulus bringing him no end of pleasure. His face twitched slightly as the agony manifested on his features, though only in the most gentle of flickers and pursing of lips, far removed from any normal man's reaction. Behind his sunglasses, his cat's eyes became narrow slits as his pupils dilated, and then he removed the iron from his skin. It required some effort, as the tool had fused to him, and carried with it some of his charred epidermis. Beneath it, a perfect circle of burn scarring marred the perfect musculature of his well-trained torso, pink and raw to the touch. He set the brand down in a business-like manner and turned to address his captive.

"I would advise your cooperation in this, my dear," he said, adjusting his shades on the bridge of his nose as a slight sheen of sweat became visible on his forehead, a discomforting side-effect of the branding process that persisted even in spite of his ordinarily inhuman tolerance for pain.

Her face composed entirely of a shade of deep crimson, Shakahnna found herself momentarily speechless. However, even unable to speak as she was, she pondered her situation and weighed up her options quickly. Resistance had only ever been a costly strategy for her during their previous confrontations, but at the same time, compliance was not something that she favoured, not least because she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of an easy victory over her. It occurred to her that he seemed to enjoy orchestrating games and that perhaps she could use that to her advantage. She could bargain with him, trade something for her willingness, and perhaps eventually convince him to provide her with the opportunity she needed to make her escape. It she overestimated his penchant for sadistic mind play, however, she'd never be able to play that card again; the first demand would need to be enough to hold his interest but not so outrageous that he laughed it off immediately. By the time her cheeks had lost their sanguine glow, her mind had already set itself to that very problem.

"Nu uh, you can fuck right off," she snapped, ignoring his current state of undress and readying herself in case he attempted to approach her. An embryonic smile appeared on his face, a gentle upturn at the corners of his mouth that might have been missed by a less observant individual, as he took a step toward her.

"You believe yourself capable of resisting?" he queried, that much sounding like a threat to her ears, but also leading her to believe that he would enjoy such behaviour on her part immensely. As much as she was tempted to make a glib remark about him sucking her cock, it was likely that he would take that as a cue to come and get her, and as such she would be unable to implement her strategy.

"Maybe not, but I'm not gonna let you be having your sick thrills for free," she asserted, aiming an angry finger at him. He paused, setting his feet together where he was standing and evidently abandoning his intentions to forcefully manoeuvre her, for the time being at least.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, the underdeveloped smirk on his features vanishing and instead giving way to a subtle raise of his eyebrow. Anyone else might have believed him to be affronted by her words, but she could see from his posture that he was intrigued, evidently wiling to entertain any idea that she might propose.

"I'll do what you want if you be doing something for me," she informed him simply, this comment bringing back his smirk as he folded his arms over his chest, regarding her in a manner that suggested he was weighing her commitment to that course of action.

"And why would I find it necessary to resort to such petty bargaining?" he questioned of her, which was a valid point. Wesker had no reason to give anything away to an individual who was currently his captive, particularly in lieu of the fact that his physical capabilities rendered that same prisoner's own considerable prowess next to useless. In spite of this, it was clear to the redhead that he favoured her compliance over needing to make her do as he commanded. Perhaps he hoped that her willingness to make sacrifices was auspicious for their future association; she almost felt sorry for him if that was truly what he believed.

Shakahnna clasped her hands behind her back and leaned toward him slightly, cocking her head in an expression of youthful innocence, before she adopted a broad and malicious grin. "You don't wanna play?" she enquired cutely, letting him know that the choice was his. The increased tension in his jaw was all that she needed to see to be sure that her goad had been successful. Much like herself, he could not decline a challenge.

"Which concession did you wish me to grant?" he queried, his words causing her to smile inwardly, though externally she kept her features guarded so as not to betray her motives. Even simply speaking with the blond sociopath was like playing several different games at the same time, and unless she paid attention to all of them she would lose them one by one. Her current problem was the correct demand to make of her jailor, though she already had an idea for that.

"I be's wanting a shower," the young woman told him. Considering what was at stake, her demand was paltry by comparison, however, she had no desire to lose his attention when this ploy was so incredibly promising. In truth, she was still quite bloody and the sweat of previous exertion made her skin and clothing feel unkempt, which she was not fond of, and as such a shower would have been greatly appreciated. "I don't want you perving on me though," she added, lifting her finger again and jabbing it at him, "I want a guarantee that you won't be watching me; I want you to be promising."

"And you trust me to be a man of my word, dear heart?" he asked her. There was an urge to scoff welling up within her, to mock his concept of gentlemanly conduct, maligned and twisted as it was, but she held her tongue for the sake of harmony.

"If you were a gentleman then you have no problem keeping a promise, especially one as simple as that," she stated, a second goad that she assumed would draw him in even if he saw it for the manipulation that it was. It was likely that he would be able to ensure that escape was impossible without monitoring her for the entirety of her time in the shower, so it was well within his power to grant her the privacy she desired. Whether he had the will was directly affected by how he reacted to her bait. Fortunately, she was in luck.

"As you wish," he said flatly, turning to the extended worktop behind him, the terms of her cooperation having been decided, "if you would follow me."

Shakahnna hesitated for a moment, but eventually padded after him, her bare feet slapping on the white linoleum as she pursued him to the area where his tools were gathered. He stood with his back to her as he prepared a particular brand, so she placed herself to his left side and watched his movements as he used the hissing miniature propane tank to heat the head of the iron, primarily so that she could observe, but also so that she was not within reach of his main hand on the off-chance that he did something she disliked. There seemed to be no deception; he was doing as he had informed her he would, and it was at this point that the flame-haired female began to develop that familiar knot of anticipation and foreboding combined in the pit of her stomach. It promised her that, whether she wanted to or not, she was going to enjoy the pain that he caused her. This conflicted with her overwhelming desire to pass judgement over and punish him for his reprehensible behaviour, her personal moral imperative clashing with her need to fulfil her sadistic lust in a case of duty versus self-indulgence. She told herself that no matter what he did to her, and whether she enjoyed it or not, she would never let him have control.

The blond-haired sociopath finished with his preparations and lifted the metal rod in his right hand as he extended his left towards her, prompting her to regard this appendage with some suspicion. "What?" she asked, glaring at his palm.

"Your hand, my dear," he insisted, watching her intently as she brought her right arm up and laid her palm on his, before he gripped it tightly, the skin in that area becoming white with the pressure applied by his ensnaring digits. Once he had taken hold of her, he raised the brand and pressed it into the flesh on the back of her smaller, more calloused paw.

The gamine squirmed as the octagonal head of the iron was pressed flat to the skin of her hand, the epidermal layer sizzling in the same manner as his had as it gave way to the heat from the metal object. She clenched her fingers around his, her nails biting into them as she grit her teeth against the pain and squeezed her eyes shut as the transferred flame ate away at her. The blistering of the surrounding tissue began and the sickly sweet smell of burnt flesh rose to her flaring nostrils, made all the more pungent by the knowledge that it was her own that was melting. Sweat beaded on her forehead and her arms prickled in response to the smouldering touch, as her eyes began to water at their corners, driven by the agony that he had placed upon her. Eventually he lifted the tool, separating it from her skin with a sharp tug and a wet tearing noise that caused her to gasp aloud. The butterflies in her stomach settled and her face flushed in what could only have been described as an afterglow; though painful, the experience had been immensely satisfying.

Unfortunately, her sense of masochistic fulfilment was short-lived due to the fact that, when she opened her eyes to study the pattern branded on her skin, it was replaced by absolute horror. Though the end of the iron had been octagonal, the underside of it, the part that had been used to burn her, had instead consisted of eight equal segments, which were now rendered in charred black on the reverse of her palm. She recognised it as the Umbrella logo and promptly went berserk.

"You tricked me!" the redhead accused loudly, lunging at him furiously but finding herself batted away easily, the blow from his left hand as powerful as his right and dropping her on her behind some way away. With his attention directed at her, however, he dropped the tool clutched in his fingers and allowed it to clatter to the floor where it left a black mark in the plastic and continued to smoulder.

Before she was able to get her bearings and rise beyond her knees he was upon her, reaching for her with his off-hand and gripping her by the back of her head, clutching her scalp roughly so that she was unable to move it. She struggled, hearing the fiery strands tearing in his fingers, before he clamped his free hand around her throat and lifted her to her feet. His face was still set in its eternally neutral frown, an expression that was counter to her own look of rabid malice.

"I assure you that there was no deception on my part," he said, to which she glowered furiously, "however, I believe that we had come to an agreement."

He released his grip on her skull and shoved her backwards with the hand holding her neck, sending her slamming into the wall behind her, where she struck heavily on the concrete and slumped to the floor. Lying crumpled on the ground, she shot him a disparaging look from behind her matted locks, massaging her throat as she did so. He returned to the work station and casually picked up the fallen brand, setting it back atop the table before shutting off the propane bottle that had, to that moment, still been hissing fiercely. He strode past the outcropping and made his way to the corner of the room, where he probed the wall once again and opened a section that was large enough for him to step through, that had previously been seamlessly integrated into the vertical surface, such that she could not have seen it before. His back was turned to her, and she needed no further prompt to lift herself from her position and move rapidly towards the tools that he had left behind.

"You will find the facilities beyond this door to be most adequate," Wesker informed her, moments before there was the sound of an empty briefcase slamming shut behind him. He rounded on her, only to see her heft the duralumin container and hurl it at him with a force any normal individual would have been hard-pressed to avoid. It should have come as no surprise to his beloved young lady that, in the blink of an eye, he was no longer occupying the space where her makeshift projectile had been aimed and was instead directly in front of her, his right hand reaching for her face.

She seized one of the discarded irons from the table and swung it at his head with her own right, only for the thin rod to thud into the skin of his forearm as he lifted his left limb to guard against her attack. His approaching palm paused inches from the end of her nose, before withdrawing to gently remove his sunglasses from where they covered his eyes and set them down upon the horizontal surface so that they were no longer in danger of being broken. The female grinned maliciously and snatched up a second of the tools in her free hand, slamming it down on the shades and smashing them to pieces. He grunted and took both of the weapons in his hands before jerking them out of hers with such a force that he might have dislocated her arms if she had been maintaining a firmer grip. Truthfully, she was happy to allow him possession of the brands, as she instantly grabbed the propane tank, turned the wheel to ignite the flame and thrust it into his face. In the same moment that his skin was seared across his features, his right fist struck her in the mouth and sent her tumbling backwards onto her rear and skidding across the floor yet again. The two steel rods he had taken from her rattled on the ground and the miniature blow torch she had been holding rolled across the linoleum burning charred, black holes in it as it did so, before the gas within ran out and the fire died.

The captive redhead rubbed her jaw as she sat up, crying out as one oversized hand clamped around her throat and hauled her into the air, forcing her back-first into the wall with seemingly little regard for her personal well-being. Errant strands of orange fell over her face as she was manoeuvred roughly, noting with some displeasure the snarl that had manifested on her sinister paramour's features for the briefest of moments before he resumed his usual expression of cold indifference. A track of burn scarring ran up his right cheek, across the bridge of his nose and covered his forehead, the charred skin having fused one of his eyes closed. The monstrous left orb regarded her furiously from its inset of blistered flesh, the cat-like slit focused on her face with an anger that had the potential to give way to extreme violence at any moment. She leered at him.

"Not so pretty anymore are you, bitch?" Shak scoffed. He glared at her for a second and then allowed his lips to split into a cruel smile. With that he lifted her away from the wall and hurled her into the concrete surface to their left, where she thudded heavily and slid onto the plastic flooring. In spite of the fact that she was covered in bruises, most of them she imagined covering large areas of the skin beneath her clothing, her face was still set in the broad grin that had recently graced her features, this expression far different from the one that had once been her default, fuelled by resentment rather than gaiety.

"As per our arrangement," he began, closing the briefcase where it rested on the worktop, having gathered the scattered equipment and placed it inside before she had even noticed that he had moved, "you will have privacy in the chamber beyond; on that you have my word. I will bid you farewell for now, however."

He lifted the case and pressed the extension of the wall on which it had previously rested on so that it retracted once again to integrate seamlessly into the vertical surface. His attire had been restored and the broken fragments of his sunglasses secreted somewhere on his person, but the mass of ruined flesh that now composed the front of his head remained, the burnt and blistered details proving a fairly accurate insight to the ugliness that dwelt within. With his possessions recovered, he turned to leave the room.

"This doesn't change anything," she informed him, holding up her clenched right fist so that he could see the scarred reverse and tapped the tender flesh there with her index finger. She was still smiling, but it was clear that she was deathly serious. Something like this wouldn't change the fact that she would never surrender to him.

He paused at the door as he input his code and watched as it opened onto the corridor beyond, before turning his head to regard her with the one eye that had not been blinded, the red and gold-ringed pupil fixing her with a predatory air. "We shall see," he said.

* * *

_One month earlier..._

S.T.A.R.S had at one time been a widespread and tightly organised group with branches throughout the country and managed by their headquarters in New York City. Initially formed to combat cult-affiliated terrorism during the sixties, they had developed over time into a fully-fledged Special Forces organisation utilised in situations ranging from hostage rescue to siege breaking. The death and resurrection of the official agency had led to a new structure emerging in the operations of what was now an underground vigilante group in opposition to a corrupt corporation. Now, rather than units stationed in various parts of the United States, they instead consisted of an individual base of operations in each region of the nation, each one with members scattered in the vicinity whose efforts were coordinated by an appointed Regional Director. These men acted as liaisons between the soldiers in the field and the government sponsors who provided them with the equipment and information they needed to successfully disrupt Umbrella's activities. Though it could not be said that volunteers to fight against the company were thin on the ground due to the tragedies instigated by them in recent years and the many people who had been affected by these losses, the need for the utmost secrecy as well as the overwhelming danger involved was enough to ensure that resources and manpower were not as great as they otherwise could have been. It did not seem that the conglomerate would be meeting its end any time soon.

In one of the north-eastern regions, the headquarters consisted of a non-descript building in one of the busiest areas of the city in which it was hidden, ideally located to mask the movements of its soldiers. It consisted of a garage, firing range, armoury, workshop and gymnasium to cater to the needs of the individuals who frequented it, as well as a number of administrative offices for the purposes of collating available information. There were also a number of rooms to accommodate certain members of the team who were at risk in the outside world, or who found it difficult to go unnoticed.

The Regional Director of this area was a dark-haired, middle-aged man by the name of Samuel Hague, a former Central Intelligence Agency operative who had since joined the effort against Umbrella. He was largely regarded as an efficient and competent man, though he walked a fine line between congratulating his government on the private war it was fighting against the maligned corporation and resentment for its inaction for all the years that it was aware of T-virus research and did nothing to prevent it before it caused the disasters that plagued the country. Sitting behind his desk in the office that he called his own, wearing a customarily neat grey suit, he sifted through his papers at his leisure. His job was more difficult than most of his contemporaries for one very pertinent reason, that being the individual who was currently advancing up the stairs to the floor where his room was situated, every enthused boom of her footsteps causing the fittings within to shake. He sighed to himself, moments before the door was thrown open and Shakahnna Morgan introduced herself with a cry of "WAH!"

"You be'd wanting to see me, sir?" she asked, standing up straight and saluting him, though more from a sense of respect for what he was doing than because she truly cared to observe a code of military discipline for her meetings with her superiors.

"I did," he informed her, nodding before he gestured to the chair that was situated opposite his own on the other side of the worktop, "take a seat."

"Okies," she said, depositing herself heavily on the furnishing and presenting him with her full attention. Once she was settled, Hague shot a glance at one of the memorandums that was closest to the top of the pile and cleared his throat, aware that this was likely not going to be a good meeting for either of them.

"There's no easy way to say this, Shakahnna," he began, which automatically provoked an expression of dread upon her features even before he had said anything, "Captain Grey has asked for you to be removed from his unit and the rest of his subordinates support the petition. They claim that your behaviour during the last operation was unprofessional and almost cost them a very valuable objective. In fact, had it not been for extreme mitigating circumstances, that being the head researcher's sudden cardiac arrest, then the mission would have been an absolute failure."

"Well, they can all get bent," she announced, though the male couldn't help but think he saw the slightest flicker of disappointment and hurt in her eyes before she said it, "I wasn't going to let us get all separated so that they could go and get themselves killed."

"It's only natural that someone in your situation should feel responsible for the deaths of their team mates, but these men knew the risks before they joined this organisation; their lives are not your responsibility," he pointed out, to which her face screwed up in incomprehension, as though she wasn't sure which incident he was referring to, this or the one five months previous, "unfortunately, your behaviour has earned you the attention of my superiors also, and they want you stricken from the active roster and made subject to a psychiatric evaluation."

"Fuck off!" she scoffed, "I won't be doing that."

"I'm sorry, Shakahnna, but you really don't have any say in the matter," he informed her, pinching the bridge of his nose as she gaped at him, "I am in full support of their decision. Even if you are perfectly sane, recently you have been singled out by the corporation and you are placing the people around you in more danger than usual, and this habit of yours for refusing to allow your team to split up is interfering with our achievements. I can't in good conscience allow you to continue to work for S.T.A.R.S."

There was a moment of silence as neither individual was inclined to speech, Hague because he had finished his part in the conversation and the young redhead before him because she could not think of anything to say. And then, she spoke up. "Then I'll leave S.T.A.R.S," she said flatly, both her voice and her face deathly serious. Her superior sighed to himself.

"I had hoped that you wouldn't say that," he said, setting his elbows on the desk in front of him and lacing his fingers, staring at her over the top of them, "though I imagine in hindsight that it was the only recourse that you could possibly take."

"There's no point in me being here if you won't let me fight; it be's all I'm good for," she asserted, the comment hovering somewhere between honest and self-deprecating depending on who it was that was listening, "besides, like you said, I've been singled out. It doesn't be right for me to put my guys in more danger than usual like that."

"A clever girl like you can pass a psychiatric evaluation without breaking a sweat, I'm sure," he pointed out, his words making her grin despite herself.

"Fuck off," she said again, though this time with a degree more good humour and much less outrage than before, "even if that were true, I can't just be sitting on my hands. I'd _actually_ go mental."

The grey-clad bureaucrat scratched at his chin thoughtfully, before returning his fingers to their position laced in front of his face. "Then leave," he told her bluntly, "say your goodbyes, let Amy take care of your cat and have Ivan let you into the armoury before you go. Pick out a few parting gifts, courtesy of S.T.A.R.S."

"Does you be serious?" the flame-haired fighter asked, the nod that he gave in response prompting her to smile broadly. She stood up from her seat and offered him another exuberant salute. "Fuck yeah," she beamed, "thankee so much."

"You won't ever be able to come back, Shakahnna," he informed her, before she had the opportunity to take her leave, "you'll be followed constantly on the outside world, and if you return they will follow you right to us. Do I make myself clear?"

"Uhuh, I understand," she told him in response, nodding enthusiastically and obviously too enamoured with the concept of having a free run in the armoury to take the rest of the conversation particularly seriously. Hague nodded and gestured towards the room's entranceway, permitting her to take her leave, which she promptly did, waving goodbye before she closed the door behind her.

The Regional Director permitted himself a moment to listen to the younger woman thundering down the stairs before he gathered up the papers on the desk and dropped them in their entirety into the tray on the right-most edge labelled "OUT". Once he had done that, he reached into the confines of his jacket's inner pocket and withdrew a sleek, black cellular phone and flipped it open, grimly scrolling to the only number in its memory and pressing the "call" button, before holding it to his ear. After a number of rings, someone answered.

"Mister Hague," Albert Wesker said, his voice distorted subtly by the filter of the telephone, "I trust you are calling to report that my wishes have been fulfilled."

"Unfortunately, yes," the middle-aged male stated, his voice resoundingly bitter, "she'll be out and on her own by the time the day is out."

"You have my gratitude then," the blond let him know, which unsurprisingly came as no consolation to the former CIA agent, "and now our attention must turn to professional matters. You will provide me with the locations of your organisation's various headquarters'."

"I'll do no such thing, Wesker," the younger of the two men replied curtly, "our agreement was that in exchange for the girl you would leave S.T.A.R.S to its own devices and pursue no further action."

"Indeed, and now I would like to propose a second transaction," the pseudo-aristocratic voice intoned dangerously, "provide me with the information that I have specified and I will permit your estranged wife and young daughter to live in ignorance."

"I thought I asked you to leave them out of this, you bastard," he snapped, his usually even temper crumbling beneath the threats against his family, whom he still very much loved in spite of their disassociation. It had been some weeks ago when his teenaged girl had come looking for him, and found him in spite of the efforts he had gone to in order to conceal his location, doing her old man proud. Mere days after he had told her to return home and never contact him again for both their sakes Umbrella had done so instead, revealing that she had led them directly to his door. Wesker had been using him ever since.

"I do not recall agreeing to your request," the silver tongue spoke, "though perhaps you forget how much you love your spouse in lieu of how long you have been separated. Tell me, Samuel; which of her eyes did you find to be the most captivating during your marriage? I will endeavour to let you see it again."

"You sick son of a bitch," the dark-haired man spat angrily, placing a hand around the lower part of his face and the mouthpiece of the cell phone in a bid to suppress his cursing so that no one else in the building suspected what was occurring.

"You have my terms," he said, his voice level as usual, though there was something in his tone that suggested he was smiling, "what is your answer?"

Hague pressed his palm to his face, grimacing to himself and swearing silently against everything that he could possibly think of, but especially Albert Wesker. He believed in the sacrifice of the smallest number being the best option, that was why offering up Shakahnna Morgan instead of the S.T.A.R.S had been so easy, but now he was torn. Either permit the monster he was currently conversing with to destroy the organisation that he supported with his every waking moment, or allow him to indulge his sadistic imagination with the two people whom he loved most in the world. For a moment he could think of nothing to say in response, the sound of his tortured decision-making seeming to increase the level of smug self-satisfaction that was coming from the other end. His eyes came to rest upon the top drawer of his desk, before screwing shut.

"I'll do it," he agreed eventually.

"Excellent," the sadist replied, "you will be contacted with details of a meeting in due course. It will be a pleasure to meet you in person at last."

"Fine," the aggravated individual said, pressing the "disconnect" button sharply and snapping the phone shut. He set it down gently on the desk and placed his fingers to his temples, massaging them in clockwise circles to ease some of the tension there.

It had occurred to him during his deliberation that a course of action that sacrificed one human life was better than that which caused the deaths of two, and so it was with a steady hand and dedicated mind that he reached to the uppermost draw of his desk and pulled it open, the loose bullets for the .357 Colt Python that lay inside rolling around and clinking against one another as he did so. He removed the firearm and hefted it in his right hand, placing it on the desk's veneered surface before he reached into the draw again and withdrew a single bullet to go with it. Once he had done this, he picked up the cell phone and slid the reverse aside to reveal the chip that made it usable, removing this vital piece and putting it down on the tabletop in front of him. He placed the telephone back into the interior of his coat, and then lifted the pistol, bringing the butt down heavily on the plastic fragment and smashing it, before sweeping it unceremoniously into his wastepaper basket.

He took a memorandum slip from a pile of empty papers and took up his pen, writing a brief message in block capitals before going through the motions of loading the lone bullet into the chamber of his gun. His face expressionless, he lifted the weapon to rest against his right temple, cocked back the hammer and sacrificed one to save many. In doing so he had taken away any reason for Wesker to harm his family, and any way he might have had to locate the men in charge of S.T.A.R.S.

Blood spattered a note that read: "Inform my family of my demise and ensure that an obituary is published."

Pragmatic to the end, Hague had wasted no words on sentimentality.


	5. Episode Two Point Three

**Episode Two Point Three: And Now Your Life Drains On The Floor**

_Present day, present time..._

The facilities that Wesker had spoken of were indeed adequate, more so than Shakahnna had expected in fact, as although the décor remained as the same, bland white that she had long since grown bored of from the previous room, there were numerous fittings to cater to her needs. Realised in white plastic were a lavatory, wash basin and shower unit, as well as a mirror set over the small sink. The enclosure that separated the shower from the remainder of the chamber was lined with various hygiene products, most of which were cherry-scented and had been chosen with a kind of indiscriminate apathy that suggested her paramour had simply acquired as many as possible to suit her tastes. In spite of his apparent disinterest, she noticed that there were several bottles that she recognised and had used often, though she set the familiar products aside in favour of the unknown alternatives, reasoning that it was always nice to try something new. That she could lock the door to the bathroom made her feel somewhat more comfortable with the concept of showering there, though she was in no doubt that her gargantuan host would not be deterred by a simple locked door if he wanted to retrieve her from within. Once she had performed her ablutions and was feeling suitably more human she made her way back into the cell's main chamber.

The sight of the black-clad individual in the other room was enough to cause her to start wildly, unprepared as she was for another visitation, though she quickly regained her composure. His face was a miserable sight. Having chipped away the worst of the seared flesh, what remained was a mask of withered ochre skin, damage too severe to regenerate as quickly as the rest of his injuries. His right eye was uncovered, but was coated in a milky glaze and obviously blind to the world, staring directly ahead in a manner that might have been quite tragic had he not deserved it and tenfold more. He had elected not to retrieve a new pair of sunglasses, and as such the entirety of the damage that she had dealt to him could be seen. She derived a degree of satisfaction from that.

"Do you think maybe you could not be a weirdo for just a little while?" she asked, annoyed at having to see him again so soon after their last meeting, which had admittedly not ended well, at least for him.

"I merely wished to ensure that you were satisfied with your accommodation," he informed her, to which she scoffed, "I notice that you are not wearing the attire that was provided for you."

The gamine shot a look down at the navy blue S.T.A.R.S fatigues that she was still wearing in spite of how grimy and blood-stained those garments still were. Her skin, at least, was clean, and that much felt good regardless of what she was clad in. It was most certainly better than the alternative. "Fuck that, those clothes be'd having the Umbrella logo on them," she said dismissively, referring to the pile of what had seemed to be white surgical scrubs on the floor of the bathroom.

"Appropriate, don't you think?" he asked, and likely would have raised an eyebrow if he had still had any. Shakahnna's reaction was a cross between annoyance at his snide comment and amusement at the concept of having taken away the mannerisms that comprised the more subtle aspects of his behaviour. It almost seemed as though she had removed a part of him, and that much gave her a warm feeling of well-being.

"Get bent," she insisted. In truth, she _was_ wearing the clothing that had been laid out for her, or at least, little pieces of it. She was using a strip of the material to tie her hair back from her face, which had been towelled off in the absence of a dryer, while another was wrapped around her right hand, masking the burn that he had given her during their last meeting. Her attempts to scrub that particular mark off her body had only led to the reverse of her palm becoming exceptionally sore, and so she had elected to cover it instead, which worked just as well at the end of the day. Either way she didn't have to look at the Umbrella logo anymore. "So what now?" she queried, crouching down beside the door and placing her back to the wall, watching him warily.

"I beg your pardon?" he enquired in response.

"What comes next? What are going to do to me you mental case?" she explained, gesticulating her hands in a display of agitation, "I assume you had something else in mind, like, that's not the end, is it?"

The blond male let out a sinister chuckle, the sound of it all the more frightening when you took into account the ravaged face that it issued forth from. "We have not begun, my dear," he informed her, that statement provoking both fear and intrigue in her. She had a good mind to locate the part of her brain that was producing the latter reaction and cut it out so that it would stop giving him the satisfaction; the former was easily masked by her flippancy.

"I still don't know why you're doing this anyway," she pointed out, once again coupling her words with the aggravated motions of her arms, her speech becoming all the more animated now that she was beginning to grow tired of his rather ambiguous way of speaking. As much as Shakahnna was fond of games, she didn't like riddles; she considered them to be boring and the preserve of pseudo-intellectuals at the same time. That he seemed to talk in them all the time grated on her immensely and she wanted a straight answer for once.

"Surely that much should be obvious," her antagonist said, to which she shot him a look that non-verbally threatened a kick in the nuts if he didn't explain and stop being such a wise arse, "you are a member of an organisation that threatens my interests, Miss Morgan, and as such I wish to interrogate you. I am assuming that you at least know the whereabouts and identity of your direct superior, and that much will suffice. If you can tell me no more than that then I will simply have that individual enlighten me instead."

"Okies, first of all you be's absolute Umbrella scum alpha, so I'm not telling you anything," she replied, still crouched against the wall, though abandoning her erratic movements now that he had given her something of an explanation for his behaviour and desire to hold her imprisoned, though naturally she was suspicious of his motives, "second, do you think I'd be stupid enough to ask to know stuff? All I need to know is where the people to make dead are and where the stuff to blow up is; anything else be's too much information because people like you always wanna know and there's no way I can tell you if I don't have any clue myself now, can I?"

"You expect me to believe that you know nothing pertinent relating to S.T.A.R.S?" he questioned, her response to which was simply to shrug.

"I expect you to fuck off, believe me or not," she told him, lacing her fingers in front of her and sighing. She noticed that Wesker's eye had come to rest upon an area of the wall a couple of feet above her head, and turned to look at what it was that he was staring at. On the vertical surface behind her was what appeared to be half a handprint realised in a thick, crimson fluid, which had not been there during their previous liaison.

The formally-dressed sadist advanced across the room towards the curious mark and examined it as it was directly in front of him, coming to stand directly over the young woman. It seemed that the stain was in fact complete, consisting of a sanguine palm on the wall of the cell and a set of digits that curled onto the inner frame of the doorway, something that he seemed to find quite curious. "And what, may I ask, is this?" he asked, glancing down at her for a moment before turning his attention back to the mark.

"So I can be finding the bathroom again if you shut the door," she said casually, before smiling to herself, "and it be's pretty. It's so fucking boring in here."

"Quite," he responded, evidently uninterested in her opinion of the decorating, "might I enquire as to where this blood originated from?"

That he seemed to feel it necessary to ask whether he could question her was, to Shakahnna, nothing short of a colossal display of faggotry on his part, and she was not impressed. "My arm," she said flatly and honestly. The truth of the matter was that Albert Wesker was not the only one capable of secreting things away so that they were easily missed, and while a network of cells lined with various invisible fittings was that much more impressive, the redhead was still more than capable of the odd surprise. Ironically, it had been the blond himself who had provided her with the perfect method for things of that nature. Having a right cheek composed entirely of scar tissue wasn't just good for bragging rights and making her look that much more gorgeous, though it certainly did that. There was a pocket of ruined flesh on the inside of her mouth that was a supposed side effect of the surgery she had undergone. It was ideal for hiding small objects such as keys or razor blades, like the sliver of sharpened metal that she was currently clutching in her right hand that she had utilised in order to let the blood for her handprint, and which she was now going to use to fuck her scarred captor up.

Of all of the major arteries in the body, the jugular was by far the gamine's favourite; however, there was another at the top of the inner thigh that had the delightful effect of sending someone into shock and causing them to bleed so quickly that they could rarely recover in time to prevent their demise when it was cut. Though she was not expecting the male to go into shock, she was pleased when slashing through his femoral artery caused his leg to buckle, which in tandem with the sudden full force of her shoulder in his stomach sent him tumbling onto his back with her sitting neatly atop his bloodied thighs. Surprised as he was, and disadvantaged by the blindness in his right eye, he could not react quickly enough to prevent the redhead from quickly gaining the upper hand over him. Seizing the initiative, she moved forwards towards his head, positioning herself on his muscular abdomen before slamming her left palm into his jaw and holding him so that his chin was forced away from his throat. With that, she whipped the razor forward and stabbed it downwards into the skin of his neck, drawing a deep, crimson gouge in the flesh and tearing open his windpipe at the same time as she severed the veins clustered around it. His life bubbled out of the wound as the muscles beneath his damaged face contorted in a mixture of intense agony and acute arousal, all the more so as she dropped the weapon in her hand and thrust her fingers into the slit, vermilion staining her palm as the increasingly thick fluid covered her skin.

He gripped the back of her head by a fistful of flame-coloured hair roughly and pulled her forwards, their lips meeting as his mouth cracked open and blood spilled from within them, the kiss tasting only of that as it filled the passages of his skull and ran into his lungs, drowning and choking him at the same time. In this situation, not needing to breathe was immensely convenient. For her part, she permitted the kiss, allowing herself a moment of abandon in lieu of the fact that she had just killed him for a second time, and admittedly because he was quite good at it even if he was dying. And then his other hand pressed on her stomach from below, this motion heralding a swift forward roll that sent her crashing heavily onto her back, moments before she was dragged upwards by the fingers tangled in her tresses as he returned to a standing position and pulled her along for the ride. She glanced up at him from her knees as she did her best to rise at the same pace as the hand clutching her scalp, watching as a torrent of scarlet cascaded from the gaping chasm in his neck and blood ran in lines from his mouth and nostrils giving him an exceptionally morbid countenance. Without a word, he pushed her in the direction of the wall as she rose to her feet, before his body came to rest against hers, pressing her to the white surface behind her and pinning her there.

She opened her mouth to speak, only for him to lift a finger to her lips and silence her. In turn, she raised her right arm and pressed the stained flesh of her hand to his face, leaving a decoration similar to the one that remained on the wall by the portal that led to the bathroom. His face remained neutral, though when he tried to speak he only succeeded in gurgling, the wound in his throat gaping widely as he did so. After a moment of silence, she shot him a frown and pout from behind the digit that was still held to the lower part of her face, deliberating biting the end of it off so that she could speak up.

"I had not expected that," Wesker eventually informed her, his usual purr now a throaty growl due to the rapidly-healing damage to his windpipe and the abundance of viscous, red fluid lining his trachea, "I underestimated your resourcefulness; it will not happen again."

"I'm not even started with you, fuck-shit-whore," she announced, parodying his own previous statement of a similar kind. His lips peeled back into a vicious sneer, revealing pearl white teeth that were slick with gore, before he rocked backwards and drew her away from the wall by her throat. Still leering intently, he quickly pushed her away, slamming her forcibly into the stone. Her head struck and swam instantaneously, making it impossible for her to brace for the second impact, let alone the third and fourth. Each time her body struck the vertical surface, her brains rattled in her skull, and it was likely that she had developed concussion from the first blow alone. She felt herself falling as the relentless pounding ended, leaving her to topple onto her face and slip into unconsciousness yet again.

-

Albert Wesker was not a man whose behaviour was governed by his emotions. He was a practical individual who favoured logic and lateral thinking, and thought passion to be as unreliable as it was dangerous to indulge in due to the adverse affects it had on one's ability to remain objective. There was no pride to be taken in this method of achieving his goals; it was simply the most effective way of doing so, and the results of his labours provided him with the necessary satisfaction. However, his habit of indifference made the unsettling irritation that he felt in the company of the imprisoned Miss Morgan incredibly vexing. Merely setting eyes on her made his jaw clench that much tighter and his brow furrow all the more, though admittedly these small changes in his expression were almost impossible for all but the most observant of people to notice. When he thought of how she defied him and refused to be manipulated, in spite of how he had imprisoned her and how easily he could end her life, that aggravation became aggression, which would rapidly descend into unrestrained violence when she looked at him with her head cocked and casually insulted him, almost as though she barely considered him worthy of the effort to do so. She had found a way to burrow under his skin and delighted in stabbing him from inside, before blatantly refusing to indulge his lust, torturing him and driving him gradually insane. He hated her and wanted her more than anything else in the world, though of course this was not something that he would ever communicate aloud.

It had been several weeks since her initial capture, and he had been gradually acclimatising her to his hospitality. Due to the damage that she had wrought to his features, he had found it necessary to conduct the majority of his business through the telephone and appropriate couriers, which had upset several of his more self-important clients and cost him a degree of respect among his contemporaries, though this was not of particular concern. The advantage of orchestrating his various schemes from his estate was that he could visit the captive redhead regularly, and though she was not particularly keen to suffer his presence, it appeared that she was resigning herself to the thought that she was not going to escape. He maintained the pretence of interrogating her by systematically alternating between questioning her and punishing her for her silence. Occasionally he would dislocate one or more of her fingers, though she was naturally stoic in the face of such petty injuries. During one of their sessions, he had convinced her to indulge him in a degree of sadism and had taken one of her fetishised razor blades to her forearms, an experience that she had not been loath to suffer through in spite of her verbal objections, though her chamber had begun to exhibit decoration in the form of scarlet handprints once again, and he suspected that she had managed to secrete another of the metal fragments on her person once again, though this was of little consequence as it posed no threat to her life. She had earned access to a dumbwaiter for her cooperation and she was fed twice a day in reasonable portions; though she never displayed any gratitude, she was courteous enough to return the various utensils to the serving window once she had finished.

Unfortunately, the blond's injuries had finally regenerated completely, and it was likely that professional obligations would keep him from her for much of the time to come. He had arranged a suitable parting gift for her, however, one that he was certain she would appreciate. From the observation lounge where he monitored her during his unscheduled hours, his hidden eyes studied the monitors that depicted the young woman from various angles, watching her as she lay curled into a foetal ball on the floor of her cell. His head rotated slightly to fix upon another screen that displayed the corridor outside of the chamber in which she dwelt, where a group of thirteen men clad in the anonymous black outfits of an Umbrella Special Forces unit were gathered, all wearing the customary gas mask to disguise their identities. They moved with agitation, all struck with a mixture of fear and anticipation that always came before one stepped out into the unknown.

He allowed his right index finger to depress a small, red button on the intercom placed before him and leaned toward it. "Proceed," he commanded, the group of men nodding in unison as they heard the order. His hand moved to activate a second device, this one activating the mechanism that opened the thick, steel bulkhead that separated their current position from that of his beloved.

The black-clad sadist was familiar enough with the female that he coveted to know the majority of her behavioural norms relatively well. He had neglected to inform his subordinates prior to despatching them to the basement area that at this time she was unlikely to be asleep, and would not take kindly to unfriendly visitors.

-

The group filed into the cell as Wesker's instruction sounded over the public address system that had been installed in the estate's basement level, walking in pairs with the commanding officer at the rear. They had all given up their firearms in order to prevent the young woman from graining easy access to a ranged weapon, and due to their knowledge of her propensity for bladed weapons they were equipped only with telescopic metal batons. As they came to stand in a rough semi-circle around the redhead it was clear that there was a great degree of anxiety amongst the assembled unit, which was only further exacerbated when the door covering the only exit hissed shut behind them with a whir of hydraulics.

"Relax," Sergeant Rhodes said flatly, withdrawing the retractable implement he had been issued with and flicking it out, which prompted his subordinates to do the same, "it's just to stop her from making a break for it."

Unfortunately, what the individual in charge of the group was unaware of was that, while the entrance had indeed been sealed to prevent escape, it was not her attempts that had been foreseen. The eyes of the assembled company were immediately drawn to the spoiled white décor, which had been stained with splotches, streaks and even the occasional handprint formed from bright crimson. Stepping into the cell was akin to landing in the middle of a nightmare. Had they not been fitted with their organisation's trademark breathing apparatus then it was likely that they would have been further perturbed by the stench of decay that permeated the air from the long-since congealed blood.

"I never took Wesker for the type who didn't do his own dirty work," Corporal Roland commented, his own calm demeanour combining with the authoritative manner of his superior to bring a sense of decorum to the proceedings.

"He's doing us a favour," Private Straw insisted, his agitated tone a permanent fixture in the team's unified voice, "giving us a chance to settle the score after she killed our brothers and sisters like that."

"He specifically ordered us not to kill her," the Corporal responded passively, "my guess is that she still knows something of some use, so we're essentially just helping in the interrogation process."

Straw jeered from behind his mask, the filter giving the noise a hollow and metallic sound. "If I'd known what a murdering bitch she was then I probably would have slit her throat while she was sleeping when we brought her in," he said, gesturing towards her with the weapon clutched in his right hand, "but since we only found out today what she was really capable of, I'm taking any chance I can get. That kind of brutality can't go unpunished; we'll show her what happens when you fuck with the U.S.F."

"Dangerous or not, I don't much like the idea of striking anyone while they're unconscious, particularly when we have more than enough manpower to handle her," the leader spoke up again, before pointing towards his outspoken subordinate with his off-hand, "Straw, wake her up."

The soldier nodded and advanced ahead of the group towards the prone young woman in front of them, coming to stand over her with half a mind to put his baton to use on her right there and then. A gasp of surprise issued from his hidden lips, however, when the captive suddenly rolled over towards him, her left arm circling around his legs moments before the feeling of a razor biting though his calf muscle caused him to scream out loud. The noise was abruptly halted when she slammed a fist into his crotch, reducing his shouts to laboured croaks as she drove the air out his lungs. She mounted him quickly, raising her balled hands as though to punch him in the face, only for him to raise the metal rod in front of his head defensively. Without a moment's hesitation, she gripped the implement in one hand and rammed the other into his stomach repeatedly, causing his grip to loosen and likely rupturing several of his internal organs. She brought the stolen weapon up and around in her fingers before swinging it straight down into his head, the blow fracturing his skull and knocking him unconscious, if not killing him outright. Blood began to seep from under the edge of the mask. It was a testament to her speed that the now-deceased male's team mates were only now acting upon her sudden attack and she was ready for their advance.

Three of the remaining troopers came at her, possibly the other members of the first victim's fire team, and grabbed at her, two of them seizing each of her arms and dragging her away from the corpse beneath her, while the other took up her legs. She pulled her limbs into her body as tightly as she could, before thrusting her feet out and kicking them free of the last man's hands, striking him a blow on the underside of his jaw with her curled toes that left them bruised and knocked him onto his back. As soon as she had planted her feet upon the floor, however, she rammed her right elbow into the abdomen of the assailant holding that arm, permitting herself to use that appendage to lock around the head of the individual to her left, deliver several stiff knees into his torso in quick succession to loosen his hold on her other arm and snap backwards, dragging his full weight with her and sending him sprawling head over heels into his partner, who caught the man's boot in the face and crumpled to the floor. The soldier who had previously taken up her feet righted himself as she stood up, only to be swiftly beaten to death by the baton that she was still clutching in her right hand, having been denied the opportunity to get his bearings.

The next fire team to approach her was wary, maintaining a distance in a bid to surround her and strike at her vulnerable side. The last of the four-man groups approached their two downed colleagues and helped them aside; the other two were beyond help. Unwilling to become the next victim, the men who had approached her were currently keeping their distance and remaining out of reach of the young woman's weapon. She was grinning as they circled her, the expression unnerving them all the more in their current situation. The Sergeant slammed his fist on the metal bulkhead that was blocking the path of their retreat angrily.

"For God's sake, Wesker, we've got wounded in here," he barked, receiving nothing in response but the cold silence of the executive's indifference, "we have to get them clear."

One of the agitated U.S.F members made the mistake of shooting a nervous glance at his commanding officer, and was caught completely off-guard by the manic redhead who bounded towards him and casually gripped the baton in his hand as he attempted to defend himself with it. Her fist crunched into his throat, crushing his windpipe and causing him to topple to the floor, coughing and spluttering as his crippled airways closed up and he died. Twisting the second weapon that she had acquired around in her hand, Shakahnna was rushed by the three men whom she had not attacked, who dealt her a stinging blow to the back of the thigh that forced her to one knee, before she managed to catch a second strike that was aimed at her head on the underside of her right arm, both injuries becoming swollen with bruising immediately. The third male's attempt came late, and she lifted her rods in a slanted cross to block the swipe aimed at the top of her head. She pushed him back, swatting his own blunt instrument aside as she rose to her bare feet yet again, before ramming the tip of the item in her right hand through the lens of his goggles and into his ocular cavity. He fell limp as she twisted it for good measure, and then crashed to the floor in a crumpled heap when she casually allowed him to drop.

The soldier who had hit her in the leg made to swing for the back of her head, only for her to sidestep and take his arm around the wrist, twisting it to breaking point in order to force his hand open and the weapon he was holding to clatter to the floor. Her foot slammed upwards into his groin, before her knee continued the motion and broke his nose through his mask. Spinning him around, she wrapped her muscular upper limbs around his head and twisted it in a direction that was contrary to his body, a visceral crunch causing her blood to warm as he too slumped dead to the ground at her feet. The final member of the fire team balked at the knowledge that she had just killed three of his team mates without even breaking stride. He still seemed to be in shock when the playful girl pounced on him, brought him to the floor beneath her knees so that his arms were pinned and gleefully began to punch him repeatedly in the head, smashing his filter, goggles and most likely his face also. Once he had stopped struggling, she placed both hands on his chest and pressed herself up into a standing position, bringing his fallen metal rod with her.

The remaining small unit were standing to the side of the cell, watching as she stood up from their dead comrade. They were guarding the two injured men while another, evidently the team's designated field medic, checked the vitals on the only two soldiers who had survived her onslaught thus far, though admittedly it seemed likely that their prolongation would be short-lived. The men exchanged nervous glances, having been caught in a situation that they likely did not even have a fighting chance of living through; even the Sergeant was reluctant to break the silent stalemate between the female prisoner and the doomed Special Forces members. The only exception to the rule was Corporal Roland, the group's second-in-command, who simply tightened the straps on the fingerless gloves covering his hands.

She leered at him broadly as he stepped away from his subordinates, placing himself between her and the men under his direct command, a symbolic movement that she respected, particularly in light of his own superior's apparent hesitance. That he was Umbrella scum somewhat detracted from any positive recognition she could afford him, however. His stance became defensive as she began to size him up, the broad grin on her face completely static and absolutely terrifying. Swinging his baton from side to side, he eventually plucked up the courage to lunge for her, their weapons clattering against one another as she parried his attempted strike easily, before pirouetting in a rare display of grace and slamming the implement clutched in her right hand into his face, the blow shattering one of the lenses in his goggles. He grunted, stumbling to the side and flailing blindly as she stepped casually out of his reach. Blood was seeping from the cracked eye of his mask from where the glass had cut into his face, and his impaired vision made the exceedingly difficult task of fighting the redhead practically impossible. When she made to deliver the killing stroke, however, he swung wildly and swatted her weapon out of her grasp, the force of the movement sending both items flying across the room.

The partly-blinded soldier lunged for her, his hands encircling her throat as his boot sank into her stomach and knocked her backwards, forcing her onto her back so that he possessed the advantage in position. Roland was no small man, indeed, he was taller than Shakahnna and considerably muscular in his own right, a fact that was evidenced by the death grip he had around the young woman's neck. His foot was still pressed into her gut as he held her down and did his best to strangle her, though he was surprised when she gripped him around the knee before suddenly sinking her fingernails into the reverse of the joint. His leg buckled and her own was pulled into her body before it slammed stiffly into his sternum over and over again, causing his body to sag even as he continued to cling to her and apply his choke hold desperately. Red droplets were spilling over the lip of the broken lens onto the redhead's face and his breathing came in laboured rasps through his filter, the female sympathising as she was also finding it difficult to draw air into her lungs. She lifted her hands to his throat, mimicking the motions of his own fingers but for the fact that she was not interested in attempting to crush his windpipe. Her talons again found purchase in his flesh, piercing and rending the skin at the sides of his neck and causing a crimson spray as she tore open his jugular. His body convulsed as the pressure applied to her airways slackened and then ended completely as he slumped to the floor, dead.

The general sentiment from his companions was one of dismay as she lifted his corpse from where it was lying atop her and dropped it to the linoleum, standing up and stretching before gently caressing her neck to ward away the ache in that area. Seeing what he believed to be an opening, one of the remaining subordinate soldiers made to strike at her head with his baton, only for her to take control of his arm, place her back to his chest and throw him unceremoniously over her shoulder. She placed one bare foot against the side of his head and jerked on his captured appendage, dislocating the limb at the shoulder and causing his neck to twist in a manner that made it crack loudly before he went limp. Taking up his weapon before it fell from his grasp, she rounded on the remaining two members of the unit who were nearby. The medic shrank away, evidently not accustomed to combat of this variety and possessing no desire to face his own mortality. Fortunately, his remaining team mate stepped forward instead.

The soldier struck low at first, finding his strike easily parried, before adjusting his aim to swing for her head, their respective metal rods slamming together again. This time, however, he placed one hand over hers, holding it locked around her weapon and away from her body. Instinctively she moved her own free hand to his in a bid to remove it, the struggle causing him to adjust his footing in a manner that brought his boot down heavily on her uncovered, and already bruised, toes. She cried out, rearing her head back and then thrusting it forward through the arch created by their raised limbs, her forehead thudding into the bridge of his nose. Unsettled by the impact, he released her baton, which she promptly brought around in an arc and struck him in the knee, shattering the cartilage therein. It was at this point that the group's non-combatant chose the ill-advised option of flight, a mistake in the same way that running from a rabid dog is also a mistake. Seeing him fleeing, the bloodthirsty girl pushed her most recent plaything away and gave chase to the individual who was attempting to evade her.

Evidently having no true concept of the layout of the series of chambers that the former S.T.A.R.S member inhabited, the man had no way of knowing that the corridor he had elected to use for his escape was a dead end, in perhaps more ways than one. Once he had reached the bathroom and realised that there was nowhere for him to run other than in the direction that he had just come from he turned around, only for the full weight of the gamine to strike him in the torso and send him plummeting to the floor with the young woman perched atop his chest. He screamed and lifted his hands to cover his face, only for her to grin maliciously and slam the weapon in her right hand down on the front of his head repeatedly until he stopped squirming and shrieking, and simply lay silently still amid a spreading pool of blood and brain matter.

The limping trooper caught up with her and grabbed her by two fistfuls of hair, the sudden upward jerk almost yanking both from her scalp, dragging her away from his murdered colleague, roaring incoherently all the while. She yelped as he wrenched her backwards before stopping herself with her hands and feet placed flat on the floor to discourage further movement. Twisting in his grip, she used her right leg to sweep his own damaged limb out from under him, sending him crumpling to the floor. He grunted as his body bounced stiffly on the plastic covering the concrete and lay winded as she turned to face him, raising the metal implement again and then smashing his head in mercilessly. Once she had finished, she allowed the telescopic rod to roll from her fingers and onto the ground, her pulse thumping in her ears as she waited for the adrenaline rush and bloodlust to subside. Her cheeks were burning and her breath hitched in her chest as she hummed quietly to herself in the aftermath, allowing her body to return to normal. As soon as she was capable, she clambered to her feet, ignoring the bruising on her foot that made every step a painful chore, the sensation of which had previously been masked by the flush of chemicals in her body brought on by her exertion and the thrill of the slaughter. Admittedly, it was a sensation that she had come to miss in recent weeks.

She stepped over the most recent body that had been created and walked back out into the main room of the cell, finding the sole surviving member of the unit, its leader, standing hesitantly by the door. The two unconscious soldiers propped against the wall were of little concern for the time being, at least until they woke up, and so she ignored them in favour of their commanding officer. Her pace became brisk as she strode towards him, advancing in a manner that evidently made the man uncomfortable. He swung for her head as she approached, only for her to duck the strike easily and follow up with a kick to his crotch that would have sent him into a foetal position had she not grabbed him by the front of his tactical vest and held him upright. She could see her own expression mirrored in one of the lenses on his mask, and she did not look happy; her face was a mask of barely concealed, angry disapproval.

"You should have been first," she informed him bluntly, slamming him backwards into the sealed metal bulkhead behind him.

"What?" he choked out, unable to catch his breath after having had his testicles decimated in such a manner.

"You were the leader; you should have been the first to step forward," she continued, bashing him against the steel once again to emphasise that she was not pleased with him, "they were your men; it was your duty to protect them. You should never have someone else do something that you aren't willing to do yourself, and that includes going into a situation that you're unlikely to survive."

His answer was incomprehensible, cut short as it was by the sudden movements of the woman who was holding him up. She threw him forcibly against the door, his face banging roughly from the closed entryway before she jerked him back, wrapping her arms around his head in a tight embrace. The grip encircling his neck clamped down around his windpipe, denying him the flow of both blood and oxygen, the muscles of her arms flexing around him and pressuring his skull unbearably. His fingers clawed at the surface before him, hiding the path of his escape just as it had done previously, scratching frantically until the nails at their tips were chipped and bleeding. The wheezing issuing from the mask's filter became laboured and heavy, before there was a sharp crunch as both individuals lurched to the side, driven by the redhead's control over her opponent, and his spine snapped at the joint between his cranium and torso. His arms dropped to his sides and he fell limp, having joined the remainder of his unit at long last.

She discarded him carelessly, freeing her hands of a decidedly unworthy opponent. That the man had shirked his duties as a leader was only further proof of how completely despicable those employed by Umbrella were. Stooping, she hefted the fallen baton that he had used in an attempt to hurt her earlier and twirled it through her fingers. Before the events that had led her to join S.T.A.R.S it had been her ambition for as long as she could remember to be a member of a legitimate law enforcement organisation. In fact, the original Special Tactics and Rescue Service had always been a consideration for her future employment. The weapon that she had obtained was symbolic of those agencies and she had long since mastered its usage. When a familiar presence loomed behind her, she spun, swinging the rod with enough force to shatter bones. It merely thudded bluntly on the raised left forearm of Albert Wesker, who was standing immediately in front of her now that she had turned.

He was wearing his usual black formal attire, and the ever-present sunglasses his the monstrous eyes that even now were regarding her with such intensity that she believed she could see them flaring bright red behind the tinted plastic. As usual, his face was a mask of passive neutrality but for the soft upturn of his mouth that showed his approval at her behaviour. "A delightful performance, dear heart," he said, removing the weapon from her hand and casting it aside casually, "however, that much will be quite sufficient."

"How did you get in here?" she asked, raising an eyebrow before turning her head to ensure that the door behind her was still sealed. Her attention was turned back to him when he began to speak again.

"There is much you do not know about these chambers, and much you never will," he informed her, his thin smile becoming a more tangible sneer. He lifted his right arm to display the severed head of one of the two remaining soldiers, this one in possession of a cracked lens in its mask. Blood seeped from the violated flesh at its base as he dangled it before her by the strap that held its breathing apparatus in place, and she could only regard it with some manner of bemusement. "For the lady," he said, proffering it to her as though it were a gift, "a token offering to demonstrate my affection."

"Because he be'd a bad person?" she asked, lifting her hands tentatively to grip the dead man's cranium between her palms and stare at it as he allowed her to remove it from his grasp.

"I have no interest in his moral affiliation, my dear," he explained, to which she tilted her head in incomprehension, "he had attempted to do harm to that which is my property and as such his life was forfeit. Is the sentiment not worthy of commemoration?"

She frowned for a moment, staring at the item clutched in her hands before looking up at him. After several seconds of contemplation, she dropped his morbid offering on the ground, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at him with indignation. "I'm not your property, bitch," she assured him.

He raised his right hand to gently clasp the rounded curve of her jaw and held her gaze parallel to his, the smirk remaining in place upon his features. "That you remain in my hospitality, supposedly against your will, suggests otherwise," he pointed out, prompting her to stick her tongue out at him. From somewhere in the chamber came the beginning strains of orchestral music, violins and other stringed instruments coming together to form the introduction of a classical piece that she was not familiar with and didn't particularly care to be. "Might I have the pleasure of this dance?" the gentleman enquired, stepping back and offering her the hand that had previously lifted her face.

Shakahnna was somewhat unsure as to exactly what was expected of her; however, curiosity eventually got the better of her as it usually did and she placed her hand atop the one that had been extended towards her, crying out in surprise when he pulled her body against his own and placed his other palm to her waist. Still not knowing quite what was happening, the redhead was surprised when he began to take the lead, their movements quickly developing into a fluid, swaying step. It was a far cry from the desperate, ugly struggle that she had been a part of previously while combating his subordinates. He moved with considerably more grace than the Special Forces members, manoeuvring her gently and accommodating her lack of experience in that area with how easily he controlled her motions. Their makeshift ballroom remained littered with corpses, a testament to the very nature of their relationship. Though there was no open enmity between them, and no attempts on either part to harm the other for the time being, the situation felt so much more dangerous than her battle with the soldiers, almost as though she were dancing with death itself.

Her bare feet skidded on a patch of blood, the sensation of falling causing her to tighten her grip on her monstrous suitor involuntarily, which prompted him to do the same to her. Bright crimson flushed her cheeks as she could feel his fingers pinching into the skin of her lower back, doing her best not to register her embarrassment. More importantly she tried desperately to avoid divulging the plethora of emotions that she was feeling as they danced, as she worried that some were not the revulsion and disgust that that she felt she should show in answer to his actions. The music rose to a crescendo that was dulled by the pounding of her blood flow in her ears, though she was aware that he had ceased their steady, circular stepping. She was surprised when he tipped her backwards so that her upper body was almost horizontal, holding her weight easily with the arm that was still placed to her back. Her head lolled, flame-red hair falling out beneath her in a cascade of spun gold, her eyes coming to rest on the two soldiers whom she had not killed herself. Wesker had done the honours, having neatly decapitated one as she had already seen, and utilising little or no restraint in the brutal evisceration of the other.

Memories of two corpses in an elevator came unbidden into her mind's eye and she broke out into a cold sweat. She felt the hand that was closed around her own unclasp softly and come to support the back of her head, lifting her so that she was no longer confronted with the image of the deceased individuals and the thoughts that they provoked. He held her so that their faces were mere inches apart, the warm breath of each caressing the features of the other, and the pace of her heartbeat quickened as he began to lean towards her. As silence settled around them, he stooped to kiss her, and her lips parted slightly in blissful acceptance as the drumming in her ears began a deafening clamour, drowning out the voice of her free will.

"Fuck off!" she snapped abruptly when they were the merest of fractions from one another, so close that her lips brushed his as she spoke. Her expression had altered in a split second from one of happy willing to another of angry disgust at both him and herself. Though he was most certainly displeased with the interruption, his lips split into a callous sneer regardless.

"As you wish," he responded, lifting her into an upright position and releasing her from his embrace before she backed away from him a considerable distance and began to hug her own torso in a bid to dispel the feeling of his touch from her skin. He ignored her and reached into the confines of his blazer, withdrawing from it a small leather pocketbook, an item that drew the redhead's attention and caused her eyes to widen in disbelief.

"That be's..." she began, trailing off as he lifted his head to look at her. Though she had no desire to betray the importance of the notepad to the black-clad sadist, there was no mistaking that which he held in his right hand as anything other than the League Table that she and her S.T.A.R.S unit had kept until their demise all those months ago. On the day when she had first met Albert Wesker she had searched high and low for the booklet, having wanted to retire it and commit it to earth with the bodies of her deceased team mates. That he was now in possession of it caused an excruciating stab in her stomach as though someone was thrusting a knife there and twisting it into her abdomen.

"I appropriated this item from your former superior following his demise," the blond explained, opening the score-chart at an empty page and beginning to make notations in it with a gilded fountain pen that he had also withdrawn from the recesses of his jacket, "you will no doubt be pleased to know that your own tally has more than doubled since I came into its possession. The same cannot be said for your erstwhile colleagues, however."

A light smirk touched his lips at that comment, though the young woman's own reaction was far less positive, her teeth gritting and her hands balling into fists angrily. He continued to inscribe her updated score into the paper with steady precision as the female whom he coveted grew more and more infuriated until at last it was beyond her control. She lunged for him with murderous eyes, silent and beside herself with rage, plucking the pen nimbly from between his fingers and driving its point into the area of his chest where it would pierce his heart, the nib crumpling on his skin before the rest of the implement tore a ragged hole in his flesh. No sooner had she done so than he spun on his heel, latching his hands around her arm and thrusting her away from him. She came to a sudden halt with her heart in her throat, suspended by his hold on her limb in a position that was inexorably uncomfortable, not least because it felt as though her captured appendage was at its breaking point. She cried out in surprise at the sudden reversal, before twisting her head to look at him through the corners of her narrowed eyes.

"Get your fucking hands off me," she spat indignantly, watching as he continued to sneer humourlessly at her.

"Your lack of gratitude perplexes me, dear heart," he informed her, making her wonder what it was that she had to be grateful for, "perhaps an admonition is in order."

Shakahnna let out a yelp as a sick pop issued from the joint at her shoulder as he dislocated her arm. Pain and a frightening lack of control ran the length of the limb as he released her and allowed her to fall to one knee, her eyes beading with agonised tears as the appendage hung slack at its uppermost point. She clamped the hand that she still maintained usage of over the limp bicep and clutched it close to her body, bowing her head in anguish. If he was finished with her, and she sincerely hoped that this was the case, then she would attempt to fix the damage that he had done, but not before he left her alone. She did not want to risk him interfering in her attempts to mend herself and causing yet more injury to her abused body. Luckily for her, she watched as his feet circled her position and approached the doorway, where he entered the code to finally open the sealed bulkhead.

"Unfortunately, my time here is at an end," he told her, stepping over the body of Sergeant Rhodes without sparing him the slightest mote of his attention, "and I will not be able to return for some time. I trust you will take solace in the fact that you are no longer alone in this chamber. I suspect, however, that you will find their conversation to be somewhat disappointing."

He smirked once more, his hand reaching to the switch that would separate them just as her head lifted so that she could glare at him through narrowed eyes and from behind fiery tresses. "Get bent," she growled, as the entryway hissed shut.


	6. Episode Three Point One

**Episode Three Point One: Dead End Soul**

It was dusk when Doctor Adrian Lovette arrived at Albert Wesker's estate, travelling in a private transport helicopter that had been arranged by the host expressly for his visit. The sole passenger of the vehicle sat in one of the upholstered seats that resided in the compartment designed for distinguished guests such as himself, quietly contemplating the autumnal shades of the evening's heavens as the sun sank on the western horizon behind veils of stone grey clouds, its vibrant yet gentle red luminescence glowing from behind beyond the shrouds as the daylight died until the next morning. The physician was already well into his fifties, a fact that was betrayed by his creased features and silver hair, which had receded considerably in recent years, and had come late to the realisation that the world around him was a thing of majesty. It was for this reason that he marvelled at its beauty while he could, as he was certain that he would miss it when he was gone. He was stirred from this reverie by the aircraft's arrival at its destination, the sudden jerk as it came to rest shaking him from his contemplation.

The helicopter settled upon the tarmac of an elevated courtyard, an area that was far removed from the large building that composed the focal point of the sprawling grounds owned by Umbrella's Chief Executive. As the dull thump of its blades slicing the air lost its cacophonous volume and began to wane, the engines having ceased their input, one of the members of the piloting crew exited the cockpit and came to open the door to Adrian's cabin. His movements were swift and desperately efficient, driven by fear of rebuke or worse, motivated entirely by the looming individual who was watching intently from the outskirts of the landing pad. The aging man himself was not one who openly and harshly criticised others, for he considered this to be detrimental to those same individuals' self-esteem, though Wesker's intolerance for behaviour that was not productive was well known, and the punishment for such activities was the stuff of legend among the company's subordinate caste.

The elderly gentleman's left hand closed around the handle of a duralumin briefcase that lay upon the seat next to him and rose to leave the aircraft, stepping down onto the black surfacing. He adjusted the lapels of the grey suit jacket that he was wearing, nodding his gratitude to the man who had assisted in his exit, and walked across the compound towards the waiting form of the owner of both the vehicle and the area where it was now situated. As was usually the case, the Aryan male was demonstrating his customary well-constructed façade of respectability, clad in ebony-coloured formalwear with the ever-present, darkly-tinted sunglasses perched upon the bridge of his nose. As they came within arm's reach of one another they clasped hands genially, the movement exposing the prosthetic right appendage of the older man, realised in polished chrome. It was unlike many other synthetics, in that it was as flexible as a regular human hand and was wired directly into the nerves and tendons at the end of the individual's severed wrist so that he could control it as well as he could his own flesh and blood. It had been a similar exchange between the two that had necessitated the implant to begin with, but in spite of this he received the physical greeting with a warm and kindly smile that persisted regardless of any insecurities he may still have possessed about the incident.

"So good of you to join me, Doctor," the blond intoned, his voice clear over the dying thunder of the helicopter's rotors.

"A pleasure as always, Albert," the man in question responded, bowing his head in a display of positive acknowledgement, though he struggled to make his own words heard in the same manner that the other male so effortlessly managed. He needn't have worried, however, as the virally-enhanced senses of the larger individual meant that he rarely, if ever, missed anything that was said.

"If you would kindly walk this way," he said, gesturing in the direction of a flight of stairs that led down into a concrete passage, which descended to the ground at the base of the raised platform that they were currently standing on before sinking further to a basement level. The submerged corridor appeared to extend directly to the lower levels of the mansion that could be seen to the east. It was a considerable distance, though not one that Adrian would find challenging even in his old age; he was still fairly healthy in spite of being only a few years shy of sixty.

"Lady Spencer has enquired as to your well-being, you know?" the physician informed him, as they entered the confines of the subterranean area and escaped the echoing chatter of the transport outside as it made ready to depart once again, "what should I tell her?"

Wesker regarded him from the corner of his eyes coldly before turning his attention back to the path ahead. "That I am well, of course," he replied, his tone suggesting that this much should have been obvious to his colleague.

"I ask because you hardly ever attend board meetings anymore," the aged male pointed out, clearly concerned with this inconsistency in the behaviour of a man who was usually only ever consistent, "though it isn't necessary for you to be in attendance, as you are not a true member of the board of directors, your seeming lack of interest has shaken the others' faith in you."

"I am not obliged to suffer their paltry squabbles for the dubious novelty of their respect; the transcripts of their professional discussions allow me to ensure that the corporation is being governed efficiently and my interest in their affairs ends there," he recounted briskly. It was not common for him to speak with such candour, however, years of association with Doctor Lovette had revealed that he was a trustworthy confidant and did not entertain others with idle gossip pertaining to the personal opinions of those he spoke with in the strictest confidence. Wesker had learned during his youth that men of such integrity were rare, and enjoyed those occasions when he could relay his sincerest views without the possibility of repercussion. His former partner, William Birkin, had been similarly reliable, though for reasons of apathy rather than virtue. "I trust that Lady Spencer is capable of orchestrating this company's activities without my constant input?" he queried, continuing his thought process.

"Actually, she is quite the marvel," the older man told him, reflecting on his blonde employer with a degree of personal fondness, "she took the helm of this organisation quite convincingly; I would not have expected it from one so young, particularly when one considers that she had lost her entire family, but I suppose hardship makes survivors of us all. Nevertheless, it was a terrible circumstance to befall anyone and I admire her determination to live up to her Grandfather's name. Perhaps you should consider visiting her, Albert; I am certain she would be overjoyed to see you, and that you would approve of the decisions she has made during your absence."

"I keep my contact with our mutual benefactor to a minimum," he said, his tone once again indicating the frankness of their relationship, "her focus upon the petty niceties is a perplexing trait in one who wields such responsibility and I would rather she prioritise her efforts than concern herself with my well-being."

"She worries about you, as family is wont to do," the grey-clad individual stated, earning himself another sidelong glance, "it is hardly unreasonable that a girl who has seen so much death in her short life should be all the more concerned for the health and safety of those that yet remain. It is a wonder in and of itself that she maintains her innocence. As long as she has veterans such as you and I to steer her in the right direction then she will be fine, I am sure,"

Wesker raised an eyebrow, though it was not an expression that the other man was intended to observe. Perhaps one of the most important reasons for the taller of the pair's candidness with his compatriot was that he was an insightful and intelligent man, who was more than capable of seeing through his veneer of gentility. This being the case, it rather begged the question as to why it would be necessary to continue to exude that pretence when it was so transparent. The reason that Adrian had not been disposed of many, many years ago for this trait, other than his considerable usefulness, was that he was an eternal and unwavering optimist. Though he was aware of the executive's manipulations, he seemed to have mistaken them for concern for their youthful superior's well-being rather than the clandestine power play that they truly were. "I am sure that she will not disappoint," he responded, knowing full well that the female would continue to lead the company so long as she continued to submit to his will either willingly or unknowingly. At current her naivety ensured that it was the latter.

"What exactly was it that you wished to see me regarding, by the way?" the aged gentleman queried after a moment, "your message was rather vague and it has been some time since we last spoke in person."

"I have a member of S.T.A.R.S in my custody," he answered, adjusting his sunglasses casually, "and I require your assistance in her interrogation."

"Ah, I had rather hoped you wouldn't say that," the physician told him, moving his artificial hand to straighten his tie, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward, "or anything of that sort, at least. I am supposed to be a Doctor of medicine; my training and research was not intended to be put towards torturing my patients."

"Our agreement states that in return for the funding and resources I provide you with, you permit me to utilise the fruits of your labours as I see fit," the blond replied, characteristically callous to the moral objections of another human being, "I hope that you would not violate a contract made in good faith, Doctor."

"Of course not, a man's word is his bond, after all," the aging male asserted matter-of-factly, before he paused to correct himself and sighed, "for better or worse, I must acquiesce to your wishes."

"I am glad to hear it," the host stated bluntly, "I would not want to see such promising research cut so woefully short, particularly in light of the sacrifices that you have made in its pursuit. Surely your family would be most dismayed to hear that the project you neglected them for never reached its conclusion, were they still alive."

"At times you are an unreasonably cruel man, Albert," he said, though this criticism was delivered in the same manner that another man might have expressed the status of the weather. Even when discussing the most profound tragedy of his life, in which he had lost his wife and child, the man was no less reasonable. The restraint of his reactions meant that he was not usually a recipient of Wesker's unique brand of personal humour, though the black-clad executive was not above liberally applying salt to wounds for his own amusement.

"The young lady that you will be questioning is hardly a blameless individual," he recounted, allowing the words of the older man to pass without comment, "she has killed many of my subordinates in recent months, and a greater number of this corporation's staff in the period preceding that, including the unfortunate Miss Green."

"Yes, Olivia," he mused, evidently harbouring some manner of regret about that particular female, "killing her may have been a kindness after what she had been through. That poor girl was dead long before her life came to an end, and the blood is on our hands, not those of this S.T.A.R.S member of yours. Regardless, I don't justify my actions by the transgressions of others; it is not my place to seek retribution against her. Do you expect me to convince me that your "young lady" is the villain in this and assuage my guilt?"

"I expect you to act in a manner befitting an employee of this organisation and perform your obligations professionally," the Umbrella C.E.O informed him sternly, "should you continue to exhibit this unfortunate tendency towards compassion then I will be unable to protect you from those who do not share my toleration for the manner in which such quirks influence your productivity."

A moment passed before Adrian responded. "Are you threatening me Albert?" he asked, his voice tinged with what sounded like amusement and a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips, almost as though he found the subtle insinuations of his malicious benefactor to be entertaining rather than frightening. In truth, he was well aware that Wesker could execute him on a whim and never suffer a consequence for that action, and it was for that reason that the elderly male was not scared; it would not change his fate to feel that way, nor would it improve the life he lived before the moment that he became expendable. There were better emotions to experience than fear, he felt.

"I would not dream of it," the taller of the two men asserted, before a momentary silence descended upon their march through the underground corridor. "There was one other matter that I wished to bring to your attention," he eventually continued, "I have a new candidate for the research that we began with dearest Olivia."

"Sometimes I suspect that you forget that I am not a torturer, or one of those men responsible for Umbrella's various biological oddities," the physician spoke up, touching his right temple with the middle and index finger of his artificial hand, "very well, and who might I ask has earned your ire on this occasion?"

"His name is Lucas Black, a sergeant in the Umbrella Special Forces," the other man told him, his tone worryingly frank considering that he was discussing a procedure that would turn another of his fellow human being's into an unthinking, unfeeling automaton, "he is currently serving as an overseer at the academy for that organisation's basic training due to the decimation of his unit, but I will have him relocated to your laboratories within the week. I would appreciate a degree of haste in this affair."

"Another of your ever-so lucrative defence contracts, Albert?" the aging male queried.

"It is no concern of yours," Wesker pointed out, bringing a crashing halt to that line of questioning and momentarily leaving his colleague to wonder why this was to be a clandestine arrangement. Of course, the black-clad individual was known for having an unreasonable amount of secrets; one more was hardly a surprise.

-

The last couple of weeks had not been swell for Shakahnna. The corpses that Wesker had left in her cell had naturally begun to decay after a couple of days, and the smell had become unbearable exceptionally quickly. Initially it had been her intention to prevent that from happening, and she had formulated several plans to make sure that it didn't. Unfortunately, her attempts the bleed the corpses dry in her shower had not come to any fruition due to the fact that there was nothing to hang them from while they dripped; there was a distinct lack of bars and pipes to tie their feet to, and she did not want to risk breaking the fittings in the bathroom. While she would not have minded being dirty in particular, since it was unlikely that her host, with his superior olfaction, would want to come anywhere near her if her personal hygiene left something to be desired, it would also have meant that she no longer had a method for avoiding his attentions for hours at a time. In the end she had resigned herself to living with the smell and had simply stolen a pair of boots for herself to finally cover her bare feet, before piling the bodies in the corner of the cell furthest away from the bathroom door and the dumbwaiter, and spent the majority of her time in the smaller of the two rooms. It had taken no time at all for the stench of death to become strong enough to permeate the air of her prison in its entirety, however, and she had fought a losing battle with the smell ever since. She had poured bottles of her various hair care products all over the bodies and around the small chamber in an attempt to drown out the stink, and had even sat for several hours beneath the running water of the shower hoping that this would ward it away. Whenever she returned to the main part of the jail for her meals, however, she would feel it invading her nasal passages and often couldn't stop herself from vomiting, even if she was always capable of doing so into the toilet rather than the floor. This, and the fact that her tolerance for the smell of cherries was being tested to its limits, had made the whole "being in prison" thing that much more difficult to manage than usual.

When Wesker had returned that morning he had wordlessly come to her cell, ignoring the chewing out that she was attempting to give him for leaving her in an enclosed space with thirteen dead men, and directed her through a passage that had not been there previously to another room that had not stunk of rot. That chamber had been similar in décor to the one where she spent the majority of her time, but for the large, metal chair with white leather upholstery that looked like a fixture from a dentist's surgery at its centre, and a waist-high work surface running around its circumference. In a moment of genius, if she did say so herself, she had managed to barter a packet of cigarettes from her malicious paramour in return for her cooperation in whatever sick endeavour he had planned on this occasion. As she had promised, she had climbed into the chair and allowed herself to be restrained, and he had gone to fetch her reward immediately afterwards. Once he had returned, he had fulfilled his part of the bargain by placing one of the white sticks between her lips and lighting it for her, before tucking the remainder of the packet into the pocket on the chest of the S.T.A.R.S fatigues that she was still wearing. Though her hands and feet were constrained, she reasoned that this was not that bad a position to be in. The towering sociopath was currently absent, she no longer had to contend with the vile miasma that had settled over her quarters and she had smokes for the first time in months, the first of which she was content to simply puff away at slowly while she waited for the blond's plans to be revealed. She reasoned that even if it turned out that she didn't like where this was going she could always just bite her tongue off and choke on it, though that had always been a possibility for her, and not one that Wesker had ever made any attempt to prevent; he was evidently certain that she would not be displeased with what he had to offer. That or he had some way of preventing her suicide.

She took another small draw on her cancer stick and ejected the smoke from the corner of her mouth, expertly gripping the stub between her pursed lips; years of smoking during combat had finely honed her ability to do so. At around the same time, the door that did not lead back to her prison hummed open, revealing the imposing form of her black-clad suitor. He entered the room in his usually brisk fashion, a commanding presence as ever, followed closely by another, older man wearing a grey suit beneath a neatly starched and pressed white lab coat and carrying a metal briefcase, an item that she had learned to be wary of through her past interactions with the first individual.

"Hey Wesker, you cunt," she greeted from her seated position, drawing once again on the ember and blowing a cloud of grey fog in his direction, though the wisps dispersed before they reached him and his companion.

"As courteous as ever, my dear," the executive responded, to which her only response was to return her attention to her current nicotine fix, before her eyes came to rest upon the man that he had brought to see her.

"Who be's you?" she asked, her tone suspicious. He smiled warmly and extended his artificial hand towards her in a gesture of civil and heartfelt salutation.

"Permit me to introduce myself, I am Doctor Adrian Lovette," he informed her, before he glanced down and noticed the thick, metal cuffs restraining her wrists, "ah, of course, how silly of me. And who might you be? I was not aware that Albert kept the company of such delightful young ladies."

"I'm Shak," she told him in response, grinning broadly with her cigarette still clutched between her teeth, before she shot a glance at the other man who had entered the room, "see, I am too courteous."

The grey-haired physician chuckled. "It would appear that our mutual friend affords you entirely too little credit," he said, his smile never leaving his face.

"Wesker's not my friend," she snorted derisively, her gaze remaining fixed upon the darkly-attired male, "he's just a dirty, little, window-licking fudge slut."

Adrian let out a guffaw in spite of himself, earning an ire-filled glare from his superior. "That will suffice, Doctor," he said, striding over to stand by the shackled female, before addressing the other man sternly, "it would behove you to remain professionally detached and concern yourself solely with the duties that you are required to perform."

"Hey, don't you be speaking to my new friend that way or I'll kick your fucking head in!" the flame-haired Amazon said, raising her voice while expertly maintaining her grip on the item clasped between her rounded lips and narrowing her eyes to show that she was serious, though the expression was so enthusiastic that it bordered on farcical. The fair-haired individual simply turned his attention back to his subordinate without acknowledging her outburst.

"Kindly make your preparations," he said, prompting the man to nod and turn to the worktop behind him, setting his briefcase down and lifting the lid in a business-like manner. After a moment, the human B.O.W moved to bring his head down closer to that of his object of fixation, who moved away either because she was uncomfortable with his proximity or wanted to annoy him. "Are you comfortable, dear heart?" he purred into her ear once she was unable to move any further.

"Can't complain," she told him through a mouthful of smouldering cigarette, "company could be better though."

Wesker sneered silently, before removing the charred stub from her mouth with his left hand and grinding it into mulch between his thumb and forefinger. "I shall have to devise a suitable punishment for this loathsome fixation of yours," he stated matter-of-factly, "perhaps I may yet break you of this unseemly vice."

"You could have just not given them to me," she pointed out.

"I would rather your compliance," he told her, reaching toward her with his right arm and gripping the curve of her jaw softly so that her gaze met that of the darkened lenses covering his eyes.

"Long wait, bitch," she said, glaring at him. The smirk on his features remained for a moment longer before he allowed his features to return to their passive neutrality and he released her from his grasp, before straightening and stepping away from the young woman. He folded his arms and cast a glance towards the other man, who was standing over the briefcase that was lying flat on the counter before him. With a practiced efficiency that one could only gain through years of repetition, he disassembled his artificial hand, placing the various components into specially designed areas of the container to keep them safe while he was not using them. With each finger tip he removed, he replaced it with another, similar-looking piece, though these new additions were not the same polished chrome that the previous ones had been. The fresh tips were composed of glass and held a small measure of fluorescent blue gel. This was a superconductive fluid that was instrumental to the success of his operations. Once he had finished assembling the new array of digits, he flexed his hand and a thin needle ejected from the end of each, almost as though he were equipped with retractable talons. Upon completion of his preparations, Wesker moved to stand before his restrained beloved and began to speak.

"Doctor Lovette has spent many years of his life perfecting a medical discipline that he himself created, utilising a device that he fashioned as a fusion of various modern and new age techniques," he informed her, apparently intent on giving her a history lesson that she was not interested in hearing in the slightest, "during his preliminary research he learned that the correct application of electrical charges could promote regeneration in otherwise irreparably damaged nerves, epidermal layers and muscle tissues. The committees responsible for his funding, however, believed that his breakthrough was rather too horrific in appearance for use in legitimate medicine despite his positive results and chose to discontinue his financial backing. When he offered his services to Umbrella, they were similarly closed-minded in reference to the possibilities of this apparatus, and so I chose to advocate this device using my own resources as Chief Executive of the company. The Doctor quickly discovered that he could utilise a similar method to control electrical impulses in the brain, and began to investigate the possibility of using his device as a method of pain relief that did not involve the utilisation of medication. From that revelation, I myself made suggestions as to what the natural progression should be. If you would be so kind, Doctor."

"My apologies, young lady," Adrian said, expressing his sincere remorse moments before the needles at the tips of his fingers pierced her flesh in the area just behind her ear. Five white hot lances of pure, unadulterated agony pierced through her mind and she screamed aloud, a feeling of debilitating nausea accompanying her sudden, painful disequilibrium.

"Do not want! Do not want!" she cried out, and likely would have begun to thrash had the pins not paralysed her somehow, leaving her mouth as the only part of her body that she maintained control over. Two trails of deep scarlet began to dribble from her nose as it spontaneously began to bleed.

"Doctor Lovette is currently accessing your pain centre for reasons other than preventing it, dear heart," the black-clad male before her stated, a fact that she was infinitely aware of already, "however, what you are currently experiencing is a mere fraction of what could possibly be derived from this device. Perhaps a demonstration will better illustrate this fact."

Wesker nodded to his accomplice, who frowned regretfully and adjusted his grip on the girl's cranium. Almost immediately, every nerve on her body lit up all at once, as though someone had doused her with boiling water; she started to scream again, her muscles becoming taut and convulsing violently as she writhed within her restraints, before the noise issuing from her mouth became choked as she forced her teeth to grit down. She went rigid and her face turned bright scarlet, sweat running from every pore on her skin. It appeared that she was resisting the onslaught of the device, though before the white pegs in her mouth were permitted to crack under the pressure, the man administering the treatment relaxed his grip and the suffering subsided.

"...her lasting damage," she heard the older man say, and it took her a long moment to realise that the torture had momentarily rendered her deaf. She breathed heavily, squirming in her seat now that the needles were no longer applied to her skull. Suddenly she was exhausted and her whole body ached, as though all of the tendrils of her nervous system had been stressed into numbness all at once, though they were not quite without feeling. Fatigue was setting in, in spite of the fact that she had been in the death grip for a matter of mere seconds, and the sensation of her damp clothing adhering to her slick skin, as well as the cool of the metal that was enclosing her wrists, felt subdued and somehow hollow. She groaned, the entirety of her form throbbing in a manner that made her want to be sick, until her malicious paramour began to speak again.

"I am certain you will agree that this was a wise acquisition," he said, his voice resonating with an underplayed sense of self-satisfaction that did not mirror on his face, "just as I am certain that you will not wish to experience this sensation a second time. In return for this concession, however, you will tell me the location of all remaining S.T.A.R.S members, or provide me with the identity of another to take your place."

After all that he had put her through thus far, Shakahnna had to wonder if he really thought it was going to be as simple as that. Could he honestly have thought that, after killing almost everyone who was important to her both now and in the past, he would break her by electrocuting her? What a pussy. Perhaps he assumed that she would just tell him to fuck off, or maybe he really did have his hopes up on this one, but whatever it was that he was expecting she was determined to disappoint. He wasn't going to get away with having underestimated her. Bile rose in her throat as she made an unhealthy snorting noise, moments before a gobbet of blood, saliva and mucus was ejected from her mouth and, with her characteristic marksmanship, spattered on the right lens of his sunglasses. "No," she said bluntly, watching as his jaw clenched tighter by the slightest fraction.

For a second, the darkly-attired sadist seemed to contemplate striking her or some other form of retribution for the act she had performed, but his posture relaxed soon thereafter and he sneered coldly once again, reaching up to remove the soiled accessory from the bridge of his perfectly-shaped nose. The physician standing behind the young female reached into the folds of his suit jacket and extracted an embroidered handkerchief, which the other male accepted wordlessly and used to wipe clean the glass that formed the lenses of his shades. "As you wish," he responded, "I would sooner not destroy your central nervous system in the pursuit of knowledge that could be extracted far more easily from one of your former companions once they are located. And I will find them, dear heart."

"Like fuck you will," the redhead growled, her entire being still complaining loudly at the torture she had already endured. He said nothing, electing merely to finish wiping away her saliva from his chosen mask before replacing it over his virus-warped eyes. Once he had done that, however, he gave the older individual in the chamber a casual nod. Apologetically silent once more, Adrian reintroduced the needles at the tips of his fingers to the skull of his most recent patient. Her eyes widened suddenly, losing their focus entirely before she slumped into her seat, the emerald orbs turning hollow and hauntingly glassy as though her mind had suddenly vacated the space behind them.

"State your name," the blond commanded, folding the square of white cotton and moving to place it upon the worktop closest to him.

"Shakahnna Morgan," the tortured woman droned, the movement of her lips the only change in her blank expression. The slight upturn at the corners of his mouth increased by the slightest fraction as his cruel smirk grew that much more profound upon his features.

"That is her real name?" the grey-haired researcher queried, evidently confused by the unique nature of the moniker.

Wesker returned to his position directly before the prone body of his beloved, seeming to ponder the concept. "An unlikely assumption," he eventually concluded, "I would propose that she has long-since abandoned her given name and taken this pseudonym as an intrinsic aspect of her identity. It is of little consequence, however; even if I were to probe her for that outdated alias it would not allow me to locate her compatriots. Where was your unit of S.T.A.R.S located, Shakahnna?"

"Angel, Wisconsin," she responded, her second answer as precise and emotionless as the first had been, lacking both the jocund delivery and the abject vulgarity of her usual replies to any questions the male asked of her. Even though it was not an insult that was levelled at him, however, the fair-haired individual's brow pinched in acknowledgement of her words.

"A planned community owned and operated by Umbrella; quite the audacious locale, but perhaps I should have expected as much from you, my dear," he said, his tone an amalgam of admiration for her intrepidity and frustration that this information was little more than useless gossip, "a city that has since been overrun by wandering T-virus carriers, however. If her companions have not been slaughtered in their entirety then they have been scattered to the winds; most unfortunate. Who was your direct superior within the organisation?"

"Samuel Hague," she told him vacantly, another worthless return as he already knew that man to be deceased.

"And second in command?" he questioned, his agitation growing imperceptibly in response to the fact that even without her ability to verbally abase him, she persisted in being only ever an obstacle in his pursuit of the group that he wished the destruction of. At this inquiry, however, her brow furrowed slightly as though she were unsure of the truth of the matter, or perhaps was seeking to hide it. After a moment the crease subsided and she relented.

"Amanda Decker," she said.

"I would advise against forcing her to recall questions that she does not have a clear concept of," the only benevolent presence in the chamber interjected, either because he was genuinely concerned for the progression of the "treatment" or conceivably due to the fact that he was desperately attempting to spare the young woman any further anguish, "you run the risk of irreparably damaging her cerebrum. She could suffer memory loss, impaired motor functions or even greater mental complications that I dare not speculate."

"Where are the remaining units of S.T.A.R.S located?" the executive insisted, paying no heed to the warning of the horrified neurologist and receiving nothing but an unintelligible stutter from the mouth of the female before him for his trouble. The expressionless mask that was her face twitched and contorted as she struggled to grasp the question.

"Please Albert, the mind is a fragile thing," the older male continued, applying a subtle alteration in pressure to the cranium of his patient to prevent her from stressing herself into brain damage, "it had never been my intention to abuse it in such a manner, particularly to satiate this morbid obsession of yours."

His intervention had been timely, but unfortunately had most likely not been to his superior's liking. Adrian had momentarily braced himself for the loss of his remaining hand, or worse, but instead the black-clad monster merely continued to scrutinise the girl who remained fixed to the chair in front of him. "Perhaps you are correct," he acquiesced eventually, before a slight smile touched his slender lips and he turned his head slowly to regard the other man with a familiarly predatory air, "my morbid obsession?"

"This vendetta you pursue against your former organisation," the aging individual explained, suddenly bracing himself all over again, but resigning himself to his fate; he had raised the issue and now it had to be confronted, "this is not the first time that I have ever seen this intensity in you and it is so much worse than before. Its perverse and only harm will ever come of it. Perhaps you should consider a sabbatical."

It was always difficult to know exactly where on the spectrum of moods Albert Wesker was at any given moment. In the current situation, Doctor Lovette could not determine whether the man was amused or infuriated. He was immediately unnerved when he moved away from the chair and advanced on him, however, and he began to wish fervently for the former. "Am I to understand that you wish to have no further part in this interrogation, Doctor?" he asked, raising an eyebrow questioningly. The physician suffered a phenomenon akin to witnessing his entire life flash before his eyes as he searched for the correct answer. He could either continue his work and not risk the wrath of the frankly dangerous human B.O.W or do what his conscience demanded of him and relinquish his status as an indispensable member of that same person's upper echelon, a course of action that could very well mean his death.

"You understand me correctly, Albert," he said, the moral imperative winning out over his own desire to live, "Lady Spencer has already informed me of your decision to destroy this country's entire government in order to eradicate those with ties to S.T.A.R.S; I will not aid in the destruction of yet another life."

The predatory smile remained, but when he next spoke it was with a surprisingly unconcerned tone. "As you wish," he replied passively, "you may take your leave."

Suitably unsettled, the physician withdrew his prosthetic from the side of the redhead's skull, retracting the needles at the tips of his fingers in the process, and retreated to the briefcase that was still sitting open on the worktop behind him. He closed it without bothering to change the components of his artificial appendage and tucked the metal container under his arm before hurrying to the door. Pausing at the portal, he shot a regretful glance at the young woman who remained stupefied to this moment. "I regret that I am not strong enough to prevent you from harming that girl," he informed the other man, turning his eyes up to confront the sunglasses perched on his nose with an unwavering gaze, "I can only hope that whatever higher power governs our lives in this world forgives you for what you have done once you reach the next, because if you are punished then it will surely be a suffering to last eternity."

He turned to leave, only to pause mid-stride as the blond addressed him once more. "There was one last concern that I had wished to attend to," he said, waiting until he was certain that he had the other man's attention before continuing, gesturing with a hand towards the blank face of his beloved, "I assume that this state is not permanent."

"It will last another ten minutes, at most," the grey-haired male responded bluntly, turning back to the portal that would lead him away from whatever sordid business Wesker was due to continue with the currently incapacitated female.

"I am pleased to hear it," he stated, turning a glance to the uncharacteristically subdued figure seated nearby, "I had other matters that I wished to inquire about."

-

Several hours subsequent to his return of his beloved Shakahnna to her recently sanitised quarters, Wesker returned to the sterile chambers to indulge in her company, having assured the perturbed Doctor Lovette that she was still alive and in good health before sending him on his way. She had been unconscious when he had left her, however, she had returned to an upright and wakeful position upon his return, and was sitting cross-legged on the floor when he arrived, her back turned to him as she rocked backwards and forwards gently. Upon closing the door to the area, however, she rotated on the spot to great him with a sly smile plastered across her features. A cigarette was clasped between her lips, standing straight from her mouth due to the muscle tension in her face, and it bounced erratically when she addressed him.

"Was wondering where you had gotten to, bitch," she said by way of welcome, leaving him in no doubt as to whether her previous, jovial attitude had returned in full, "I be's needing a light."

His response was one of silent yet definite disapproval, though he stepped toward her and reached into the confines of his suit jacket to remove the lighter that he had placed there regardless. He was aware that it was in her nature to persist in those behaviours that would most earn his ire, particularly now that he had made her aware of how much it aggravated him. On the other hand, a gentleman should never leave his lady wanting, and so he moved to fulfil her wishes. "I trust you approve of the expediency with which your accommodation was rendered habitable again," he stated, watching her clamber to her feet and lean toward him as he fluidly opened the small, metal item in his hand and ignited it so that she could partake in the flame.

"It be's boring," she informed him, her lack of gratitude towards his hospitality vexing him once more as he replaced the cap to the lighter and tucked it back into the recesses of his blazer, "and your peoples be'd wiping off my score."

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, unsure as to what she was referring. She took a draw on the white stick that he had lit for her and casually blew a smoke ring that enveloped his face, wreathing his features in the pale grey miasma. He remained stoic, momentarily pausing his breathing and thankfully not suffering from the various discomforts an ordinary man would have expected to derive from those same impurities in the air, though his patience for her passively caustic attitude was beginning to dwindle steadily.

"I was keeping score on the amount of times we have be'd killing each other," she replied, as though it were the most obvious and normal concept for a tally to ever exist, "and I be'd winning two-nil. Hey, do you add every time that I kill you to the league table?"

He smirked slightly. It seemed that she had come to terms with his possession of the coveted leather notebook that was currently residing with the lighter in one of the pockets of his attire, and that at least demonstrated that she had made some progress. He did not doubt that in time she would submit completely to his will, resign herself to a lifetime as his captive, or lover, and relinquish herself to him completely. "I was under the impression that your score improved only if the Umbrella employee in question was removed from its service," he answered, evidently in the negative, "as you can see, my dear, I am alive and well."

"I still killed you though," she told him, grinning broadly as she removed the cigarette from her mouth and tapped ash over his rigorously polished boots.

"Indeed," the blond acknowledged, reasoning that this transgression could not go unpunished, "you have killed many people in your life, dear heart; you and I are much alike in that respect."

"Fuck off," the young woman scoffed, "we don't be's anything alike at all."

"You delude yourself," he commented, his smirk still present upon his face as he lifted his right hand to adjust the level of his sunglasses so that his virally-warped eyes were peering at her from over the frames, "we both kill to achieve an aim, without remorse or pity for those who die, and we both think nothing of the individuals whose lives are lost at our hands. To me they are merely necessary and justifiable sacrifices, a means to an end, and to you they are merely a method for increasing a score in a game that you created to make the arbitrary task of their slaughter more enjoyable for yourself."

"Nu uh, be's different," she insisted, as he placed the dark lenses back over the monstrous orbs that were scrutinising her viciously, "I kill bad people; its justice."

"Further delusion, my love," he stated, stepping toward her in such a manner that it made her retreat backwards several steps until he outpaced her and came to place his hands upon her shoulders, holding her gently in place, "the only difference between us is that I do not squander my time justifying my actions through subjective moral imperatives. I merely acknowledge that they are necessary and carry them out, regardless of ethical dichotomies. In the end, we have both murdered many, many people, and if you must attribute guilt to me then that same guilt must also rest upon your shoulders as well."

"Its not the same," she continued to insist, glaring up at him before it seemed that her resolve began to wilt and she dipped her head to look away from him, her gaze falling to stare blankly at his chest, "its not the same; I'm the good guys."

"I am certain that the families of the men and women you butchered are not inclined to attribute you a positive moral standing," he replied, the sneer widening as she seemed to be losing her will to object, "as I have already mentioned, these concepts are strictly subjective, and thus, useless."

She was silent for a moment, contemplating his lapels for a moment longer, before the cigarette still clutched between her fingers burned to its stub, the heat searing her skin and causing her to yelp in surprise as she dropped the butt to the linoleum. Almost instantaneously, her head snapped upwards to fix him with two shining emerald eyes that were alive with conviction and righteous indignation. "Fuck you, Wesker, it's _not _the same!" she asserted, with a finality that would ensure there would be no rebuttal from him, "even if I do kill people like you, to achieve an end like you, without remorse like you do, I don't do it indiscriminately the same way. I know what good and evil are; the people on my team were choosing to do the right thing and I stuck by them because of that. Not once did I ever throw them away like garbage because they had "served their purpose" or whatever other bullshit reasons you give to dispose of people on your own fucking team. And you know what? I know that killing people is wrong, but letting them hurt other people is just as wrong, and given the choice I would rather have the blood of the evil peoples on my hands than of the innocent because I did nothing to keep them safe. And you can say it till you be's blue in the face, but I know it already. I know that if there is a hell then I'm going there, because I'm guilty, I'm guilty, I'm guilty! And you're guilty too, so you'll be going with me, and ha-ha, I'm glad!"

The blond seemed taken aback for the briefest of seconds before his composure reasserted itself. He lifted his hands from her shoulders and allowed his muscular arms to fold over his chest, regarding her critically. "And what, pray tell, has provoked this outburst?" he queried, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

"I know what you be's up to, bitch," she informed him angrily, "it's what you always do, to everyone. You get in their heads and you twist stuff and you make it so that they don't know if they're coming or going, because when they can't even think straight you can be doing anything you want with them, but it doesn't be going to work this time. I've already asked myself all of these questions before, and hearing them in a voice outside of my head isn't going to change my mind, so you can just fuck off."

His brow pinched into a subtle scowl, the crease at the uppermost curve of his nose hidden by the frame of his sunglasses, though it was obvious that she could tell how agitated he was. "If you insist," he replied, turning his back to her and returning to the chamber's entrance.

For a moment the redhead seemed perfectly willing to allow him to leave so soon after arriving, however, she interrupted his exit when she began to speak once again. "Hey Wesker," she called, causing him to halt his stride and turn to glance at her over his shoulder. Another cigarette was clutched between her lips and she was looking at him with her head turned to the side, non-verbally insisting that he returned to light it. He acquiesced silently, returning to her position and withdrawing the stainless steel item from his inside pocket, before striking it and lifting the flame to the proffered end. "Who are you?" she asked him as he did so, eliciting another curious raise of his eyebrow, "I mean, I be'd searching for your name on the police database we have at S.T.A.R.S, but..."

"You found nothing?" he suggested in response, only for her to shake her head.

"Nu uh, actually, the opposite," she told him, puffing thoughtfully on the cylinder in her mouth, "I found about five entries for Albert Wesker. I mean, there was a kid on the adoption register but the record ended there. And there was a researcher with Umbrella with the same name who died in a car crash in the early nineties. Then there was a S.T.A.R.S Captain called A. Wesker back when it be'd an actual special forces unit, also in Raccoon City, but he was supposed to have been killed because of some bullshit about the recklessness of his subordinates, but this is S.T.A.R.S we be talking about, so I be'd taking that with a pinch of salt. _Then_ I found out that the director of Sun Enterprises was called Albert Wesker too, but he kicked the bucket when his company went tits up and finally the current Chief Executive Officer of Umbrella be's Albert Wesker as well. So, who do you be? I thought maybe the first and the last, but if you can't really die then do you be more than that?"

"They all refer to me, dear heart," he stated bluntly, to which she frowned.

"But how does that be working," she challenged, before ejecting a stream of thick smoke from between her lips and directly into his face once more, "I mean, they all had different profiles than you. Looked different, all had different histories, most of them even had different dates of birth. The Wesker who was in S.T.A.R.S even be'd in the United States military."

"You assume that the information you obtained was accurate," he pointed out, while silently adding that she also seemed to assume that it had not been tampered with, "in actuality each of those records was created while I was performing specific duties for my employers. Once I had concluded those objectives, however, there was no longer any reason to maintain the various façades and so I simply abandoned them. Naturally, disappearances cause conjecture, whereas there is little reason to question a death providing that it seems plausibly accidental or natural, or a suitable scapegoat is available. I simply attributed my identity to another, deceased individual and pursued my subsequent project in the absence of my previous charade."

"Then you really did be being a S.T.A.R.S Captain then?" she asked, tilting her head thoughtfully, his only answer coming in the form of a slight incline in the position of his head, "aww, man, you're such an arsehole. Still, I guess that explains why you don't be liking us so much, considering we be'd kicking you arse."

"As I have said before, it is merely because your organisation threatens my interests within this company," he asserted, to which she made a V-shape using the middle and index fingers of her right hand, before waving it at him obnoxiously, "I must confess that I was surprised with what I came to know of your own past, my dear."

She paused for a moment in surprise at his words, her cigarette posed beside her lips as she seemed to mull his comment over, eyeing him warily as she did so. "You don't know anything about me," she eventually concluded, though she was distracted enough not to take another drag on the tube of tobacco that was still held at her mouth. It was a galling task to determine whether he was sincere in his assertions or not, as his expression did not change in a manner that would give her a clear sense of either.

"You were born Jasmine Margaret Alexander in the year 1983 to unmarried parents," he began to recite, the words coming from his mouth causing her to balk in a manner that made her drop her cigarette for the second time since the commencement of this concourse, "you were reared in Scotland in the United Kingdom alongside your younger sister who was born similarly out of wedlock. To the best of your knowledge, your immediate family are still alive and quite safe in the country that you hail from. For a time you were engaged to be married to a young gentleman of American citizenship by the name of Jonathon and subsequently settled with him in that country, however, your visa expired and you were forced to return to your home. You made haste to conclude the bureaucracy that would allow you to return to your beloved; however, before you were able to reunite with him, the outbreaks brought about by the demise of Sun Enterprises plunged this nation into anarchy. In the ensuing chaos you stowed aboard a military flight bound for New York City and journeyed on foot to the dwelling of your fiancé. Unfortunately, you were unable to locate him and remain unsure of his fate to this day. I can only assume that his probable demise was the true motivator behind your decision to wage war against my employers."

As he concluded his account of her history she became immobile, her muscles going rigid as the shock of his knowledge sank in. For a moment he could not help but wonder what her reaction would be once she overcame her initial surprise, though he was not surprised when she suddenly surged forward, her fists slamming against his torso as she tried her best to hurt him in a fit of rage. He easily gripped her by the wrists and brought her attack to a stop and she confronted him, snarling. "How did you find out?" she spat furiously.

A broad smirk split his features as he returned her gaze, the smile that he was giving her composed entirely of malice. "You told me," he replied.

Memories of a chair that looked like it belonged in a dental surgery, agonising pinpoints that felt like molten lead in her mind and a blank spot that she could not fill came rushing back to her, and almost immediately she crumpled before him, knowing that he was telling the truth. As she slumped to her knees he released his hold on her forearms, her sudden assault over as quickly as it had begun. From her position on the ground, she began to convulse as her body was wracked with violent sobs. The emotional barricades that had gone hand-in-hand with her forced forgetfulness were undone in a moment, and she began to quiver as a wave of deep sadness washed over her. Years of focusing on the here and now, and never acknowledging what had happened in the past, had finally caught up to her, and tears spilled from her eyes and ran over the curves of her rounded cheeks, those from her right eye falling upon the scar that bisected her features on that side and rolling to her lips, the taste of salt strong there. Forcing back the spasms that came with the sudden melancholy, she turned her head upwards to look at him, his gargantuan height even more evident now that she was that much closer to the floor.

"Leave them alone," she said, her tone one of pleading in spite of the fact that she was well aware of the fact that the man above her had no mercy, remorse or any concept of morality. Any enjoyment that he may have derived from her reaction had been cut short when she had folded in front of him, and he was now looking down on her with an expression of utter disgust.

"And I believed that I had found an equal," he responded caustically, turning away from her and approaching the cell's entrance with a mind to no longer be in her company. Though her resolve had been impressive in reference to her goals and motivations, towards her own well-being, she still possessed weakness, even if it was a weakness that could only be accessed through the use of another and her relationship with that individual. Had Wesker ever truly intended to interrogate her as to the location of S.T.A.R.S, it was unlikely that he would have had Doctor Lovette utilise his device on her rather than any other whom she might feel compassion for, forcing her to observe and making her promises of leniency towards whomever that person might be.

As he left, she wrapped her arms around her torso and hugged them tightly to her body, a great pain building at the pit of her stomach for the unwitting betrayal that she had committed. "I'm sorry," she moaned quietly, as the hydraulics that controlled the door permitted Wesker his exit, "I'm so sorry."


	7. Episode Three Point Two

**Episode Three Point Two: Dead End Girl**

It was a beautiful day. The noon sun shone from its perch high above, a burning orb in the cloudless azure sky that stretched from horizon to horizon. The air was clear and brisk, the frost of the morning having given way beneath the warm caress of the star's rays to form a clean and pleasant atmosphere that filled the lungs and brought forth an effervescent colour to the cheeks. And as fortune would have it, Shakahnna was currently outside to enjoy this day.

Aside from having a fully functioning laboratory, heliport and various other fixtures that would normally seem out of place on the grounds of an estate, no matter how large or owned by whom, Albert Wesker's home also boasted an expansive ornamental garden. The immense labyrinth of grey stone walls and impenetrably thick hedgerows contained the usual aspects of any configuration of that type; twisting and turning pathways that led in all directions, the occasional courtyard decorated with various statues and fountains, and the debilitating sense of being lost that could only come from something so convoluted. Naturally, however, it was something that had been designed entirely by her malevolent suitor for her amusement, and so it contained an entirely more malicious element than simply leaving her unable to navigate. At regular intervals the exuberant redhead had been accosted by zombies, most of which were clad in the ever so familiar garb of the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service, the units that currently patrolled all populated areas in the dystopian United States, and whose behaviour was characterised by extreme aggression and almost constant abuse of power. The female had become immensely fond of those men, namely because no matter how many of them you brutally executed, you never felt guilty about it afterwards. And though she was perfectly capable of tackling garden variety T-virus carriers with her bare hands should the situation call for it, her darkly paramour had presented her with a gift to mark the occasion of her being allowed into the open air for the first time since her initial incarceration.

When she had first woken up it had been to the aching in her side from sleeping atop solid ground. Her captor had provided her with a bed in her quarters several weeks previously, however, had it not been for the pleasant breeze then she might have mistaken her surroundings for her cell and assumed that the man had simply taken back the furniture that he had given her on a whim. When she had finally roused herself from her drowsy stupor, she had realised that she was instead lying in a small cul-de-sac of the hedge maze that she could only infer was located somewhere within the compound owned by the blond. A duralumin briefcase had been the only sign that it had indeed been the man whom had brought her here and at first she had been wary of the item, though curiosity had quickly overpowered her, for the better as it seemed. The container had introduced, much to her delight, a pair of cat's claws. They were markedly different from her usual weaponry, which had been four straight blades that came to a point at their ends, and instead consisted of curved daggers whose inner edges were cruelly serrated while the outer contours possessed vicious hooks at the area just before her knuckles. A quick foray into the nearest hedge revealed an impossibly strong wire mesh that she was unable to cut through, meaning that Wesker did not want her taking shortcuts. She quickly found out why, as almost immediately the undead began to make themselves known. Her new equipment had proven startlingly effective in the rending of flesh and the disembowelling of the shuffling denizens of the convoluted corridors, though she somewhat suspected that the Aryan sadist had intended that much.

Unfortunately, she had yet to be reunited with the male, and as such did not know particularly what was expected of her on this stage. Until that was revealed, she elected instead to simply rampage through the walled passages slaughtering everything that she came across. With adrenaline surging through her veins and the pounding of her heartbeat deafening her to the sound of her feet slamming into the gravel as she ran, she rushed out into a new, exquisitely decorated open area and straight for a group of half a dozen carriers milling idly at its centre. Statues of young women weeping hid their eyes from what occurred as she hurried towards the kill. Impaling the first of the emaciated ghouls through the sternum, the grinning redhead shoved the creature backwards into its brethren with a large section of its torso missing. The insensate undead scattered as the first victim fell among them, turning to face the only fresh meat that they had been given the opportunity to feast upon in days and failing to comprehend the fact that they were not going to survive the next few moments. With all of her characteristic grace and dexterity, Shakahnna whirled past the second zombie, neatly slicing the muscles on each of its arms to leave them slack before stabbing clean through the reverse of its ribcage and pierce its atrophied heart. She did not break stride, merely pausing momentarily to kick the decaying body to the ground and dislodge her blades as she turned to her third target.

Bringing her arm around to point directly at the face of her next opponent, she spun with blinding speed and thrust the points of the knives posed at the forefront of her first through its face, rotten brain matter spewing forth from the holes carved in its skull before it staggered and toppled into a heap on the floor. Her other hand flicked out, flaying the skin from the face of the next lurching individual, before she reversed the motion and cleaved apart the flesh of its chest. Pivoting on one foot, she drove the sole of her opposing boot into its knee, the impact breaking the joint with a wet crunch as the cartilage gave way and the leg bent back on itself, causing the moaning corpse to fall just far enough for its intended prey to easily drive her elbow into its neck and shatter its fragile vertebrae, paralysing it and allowing it to drop to the ground. She followed up by plunging her intricately designed knives into the penultimate monster's stomach, rupturing disused organs and spilling a considerable length of putrid intestine from its gut, before striking a second time with her other hand and piercing its lungs and heart, easily puncturing all of the major internal components contained within its torso and leaving it to bleed into itself now that it no longer had the capacity to prove a threat. The final mindless denizen of the courtyard lunged for her, peeling hands outstretched towards her, only for the enthused female to step into its reach and neatly decapitate it with both of her bladed gloves. Its head popped of like a champagne cork and landed with a splash in a nearby fountain, the water from which seeped out from a demon's mouth as it terrorised one of the crying maidens petrified at the water's edge. The crystal clear fluid quickly began to turn septic from the influence of the zombie's separated cranium, but this fact did not warrant her attention, and so she turned her focus to locating further carnage.

Another narrow passage lined with neatly trimmed hedgerows and smooth stone monoliths led her out into another new courtyard, this one an expansive crisscross of gravel pathways and well-maintained flowerbeds, all sporting a variety of different roses. At the centre of the courtyard yet more concrete damsels knelt in a tight cluster, sobbing into their palms as they bore the burden of what appeared to be a rounded altar that formed the focal point of the open area that the redhead that recently entered. Approaching the centrepiece of the enclosure warily, Shakahnna's eyes took in a small building that had the look of a crypt that lay beyond the shrine directly opposite the opening that she had come from. Engraved upon the door was a relief of a man, standing with his arms outstretched as a serpent entwined itself around his body. She cocked her head at this, but since it was closed off, ignored it for now. As she reached the table, which came up to her waist, the stout female noticed that there were three circular indentations about the size of her palm in a triangular pattern carved into its top.

Nodding to herself, the young lady reached into the pockets of her combat fatigues, carefully so as not to slice open her clothes, and withdrew a trio of medallions one-by-one, before setting them down atop the space in front of her. She had located each of the tokens in various places around the maze that she was currently wandering, each of them having been sat upon what appeared to be small sundials scattered throughout its labyrinthine corridors and plazas. Ordinarily she would not have been interested in picking up bits of rock or metal, unless they were sharp, but these were also a beautiful shade of deep metallic green; it was obvious to her that Wesker had wanted to keep her interest in these items and so she had picked them up and carried them with her. Now that she had found the area in which she needed them she was admittedly somewhat loath to let them go considering how pretty they were, but she suspected that there was still further bloodshed to be had, and in lieu of that fact, the emblems that she had obtained were going to need to take one for the team. Or rather, her metaphorical hard-on.

She set each of the metal discs into a slot on the raised platform before her, giving each one a bang with her fist for good measure and stood back to see what would happen. After a moment of silence there was the sound of stone grinding on stone behind her, and upon turning around she realised that the direction from which she had come was now no longer viable due to the presence of another immense obelisk filling the aperture that had not been there moments previously. She winced with the knowledge that she should have known better, subsequent to the din created by the entrance of the tomb sliding open. With the most subtle and easy of motions, the flame-haired Amazon took up a combative stance, backing away from the altar in front of her without retreating to the now-closed entryway so as not to render herself cornered. Her shoulders hunched and the blades attached to her fists rose to a ready position, her feet sliding apart to allow both ease of movement and solidarity in combat if she were to be engaged immediately, her wide emerald eyes focused upon the open portal as her mind went over the numerous possibilities of what could confront her next.

There was a shuffling sound, akin to that of leather on concrete, moments before something grunted from within the structure directly ahead of her. It was a deep and primal noise, the kind that would issue from the snout of an unintelligent creature upon noticing a sudden influx of sunlight that had not been there previously. A heavy footstep resounded, and then another, and then a third, moments before a scaly crown the colour of jade emerged into the golden luminescence, two beady, jasper-tinted eyes peering out from its flattened features, surveying the area ahead of it as it emerged from the building that had been its home for an unknown number of days. Even hunched as it was, the creature was still taller than the female who occupied the open area with it, though it seemed less prepared for the battleground that awaited it, blinking dumbly in the harsh brightness as it attempted to acclimatise itself to its new surroundings. Its arms hung almost to the ground, ending in cruel, curved talons much like her own hands, though it possessed an extra advantage in the form of further claws adorning its feet. Its lips curled back away from its viciously pointed teeth and it snarled angrily as it finally became accustomed to the area, and identified, in the way that only an animal can, fresh meat. In a moment that felt very much like the prelude to something that would end in death for one or both of them, Shakahnna and the Hunter faced off.

Before the amphibian crossbreed even had the opportunity to move, however, the young woman pushed off with her back foot and began sprinting towards it, a broad grin plastered across her face. The creature opposite her was somewhat slower on the uptake, but surged forward nonetheless, ready to rend her flesh with its claws in much the same way as she had intended to do to it. It outpaced her easily, beating her to the platform between them and hopping on top of it, preparing to leap down on her with its claws outstretched. Unwilling to be impaled, the human stooped as she ran and raked a hand through the small stones that composed the flooring of the path that she was running on, before hurling the pile that she had gathered at her adversary. She had not intended to hurt it; after all, she had seen heavy calibre rifle rounds crumple on these enemies' armoured hides, but the monster lifted one arm to shield itself from the flying debris, momentarily abandoning its intentions of attacking just long enough for her to close the gap between them and cleave a gouge in its taut calf muscle, the serrated edge of her reinforced steel knives carving four deep, scarlet wounds in the leg. She ducked and rolled to the side as it roared, making a vain attempt to swat her head from her shoulders in retaliation, before hopping down from its perch and pursuing her as she plunged face first into one of the rose bushes nearby.

The thorns of the shrubs that she had pitched into left thin, bloody trails on her arms and cheeks, and tugged at her clothing as she wriggled through the interlacing stems that blocked her path. Behind her, the beast that had been attempting to rend her asunder began to slash at the outskirts of the plants that were hiding her. Petals and leaves began to rain upon her as they were whipped up into the air by the wild swipes of her opponent, the aggressive snarling that was coming from above prompting her to roll deeper into the flowerbed to avoid the destruction that was occurring over her head. As she began to move away beneath the cover of the roses, the creature leapt forwards, its feet slamming down into the dirt and nearly pinning her body to the ground. Unable to see her beneath the cloak of red buds and green tendrils, the Hunter thrust downwards with the claws of its right arm, raking the earth in which they had been planted, its claws almost striking her head. In response, she thrust her own bladed fist upwards towards its face, the sudden movement causing it to shriek and hop backwards, before it circled her position and made to strike at her again.

She curled her back and brought her feet upwards, bringing the soles of her boots around to slam into its chest and knock it off balance. As it stumbled backwards, the female finished her motion by completing her roll and coming to a crouching position amid the bushes around her, before twisting around and driving the full force of her body into a straight right punch. The blades focused her entire weight and muscle power into four small areas, all of them placed directly over the area where the monster's heart was, and she was unsurprised when they punctured its thick skin, drove into its ribcage and tore through the muscle at the centre. Blood ejected from its mouth as it grunted in surprise, the crimson fluid staining its teeth as its lips pulled away, moments before it threw back its head and screeched with a pitch that made her ears ring. With that, it flopped backwards, its dying motion ripping her claws from its sternum and causing a fountain of vermilion to gush from its wounds, spraying out over the immediate area. It slumped into the earth beneath its feet, flattening a section of the budding flowers with its considerable carriage at the same time, while the girl did the same, falling back into the shade of the flourishing blooms. After a moment of intent listening, she realised that there were no other creatures and that the door which had blocked her path had not reopened. That meant that she was supposed to go down into the crypt, and since she was not really in the mood for musty and dark when it was such a beautiful day outside, she elected to remain where she was for the time being, splayed upon the ground and staring up at the blue sky while pretty red and white blossoms spattered with blood danced at the periphery of her vision. After a moment she began to feel quite tired as the adrenaline washed out of her system, and for a moment she thought that she was dreaming when she heard the disembodied voice of her captor speaking to her.

"I trust that you have enjoyed this exercise, dear heart," he purred, causing her to look around in a bid to locate him, before she sat up from her position and found him standing several yards away on the gravel path nearby, arms folded over his chest and head raised slightly as he regarded her critically.

"Enjoyed?" she asked, clambering to her feet, though admittedly she did not gain much height in comparison with the towering blond, "like it be's over now?"

"Though you may not have realised it, you have in fact been here for several hours," he informed her. He was correct when he made this suggestion, as this news caused her brow to furrow deeply. Though she could feel the vestiges of fatigue, it was difficult for her to believe that she had been running about in the labyrinth for even half an hour, let alone several as he had said. In spite of her tiredness, she was immensely disappointed that this was the end of her foray in the maze, though she was unsure as to whether this was because she was having so much fun or because it had been so long since she had been outside, particularly in an area that was so pretty.

"It didn't seem like that long," she told him, the knowledge that she had reached the end of her carnage for the day making her long for a cigarette, though she had expended that particular resource a couple of days ago and had yet to convince Wesker into letting her have another packet. She had a lighter now, however, which had been another concession he had provided with her in reply to the games that they continued to play within the confines of her cell, and so could not wait to have another packet to puff her way through. "That Hunter was pish incidentally," she continued matter-of-factly, indicating the scaly corpse that was lying in the flowerbed between them, "I mean, it didn't be bad, but it wasn't spectacular either. I would have liked to have seen one of the Tyrant Veronica's again; those are hot."

"Bliss is fleeting, my love," he stated in response to her initial comment, before looking down upon the body of the mammal-amphibian hybrid with an expression of casual disregard, "and you have my apologies for the lack of challenge provided by this adversary. I will take note of its unsatisfactory performance and provide you with a more suitable opponent when next you are allowed access to this location."

"Next time?" Shakahnna asked, raising an eyebrow at his words and fervently wishing yet again that she had something to smoke, the thought of a further opportunity to indulge in the guiltless, carefree destruction that he had provided her with today causing her skin to prickle and her breath to hitch slightly, "so you think I might get to come back here one day soon?"

The looming executive smiled slightly, approving of her eagerness. "If your future conduct earns my favour then I may consider it," he replied, a subtle glimmer of self-satisfaction manifesting on his features, the smugness of it making the redhead want to tear his face off for her own gratification. There was something about the way the older individual wore his conceit that made her want to sink her fingers into his cheeks and rip away the skin on the front of his skull so that he'd stop being so bloody cocky. She'd known arrogant men before, and none of them annoyed her quite as much as the man standing before her; perhaps it had something to do with his undeniable capability, the fact that the majority of his arrogance was completely justified.

She frowned at him and she lifted her hand to scratch the back of her head softly, being careful not to slice her own hair off with the blades of her cat claws. "I kind of don't wanna be going back in that box," she told him, looking more than slightly despondent with the concept, "I think I wanna be staying and playing a bit more."

"Unfortunately, the resources of this area have been expended until I have occasion to replenish them," he responded, the slight smirk remaining on his face as he lifted a hand to idly adjust the level of his sunglasses upon his nose, "unless, of course, you wished for me to indulge you myself."

Her lips split into a broad grin at this and she cocked her head in a non-verbal challenge. "Sounds good to me," she said, slipping back into the comfortingly familiar combative stance that she had utilised against her previous victim. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards the slightest fraction, his smirk growing that much more tangible at her words, as he placed a hand to his torso just below his chest and bowed to her in a gesture of gentlemanly deference.

"As usual, my lady," he said, straightening to his full, impressive height once again, "the pleasure is all mine."

He surged forward, his body becoming a blur of ebony that any normal person would have been hard-pressed to follow, as he came to take possession of her immediately. But she had grown accustomed to his speed and was dancing to his beat, which was why her first strike found a home at his left side, the blades of her right fist flaying the skin from his waist, before a backhanded swing of her other hand tore through his forearm as he reached for her. Shuffling back a fraction of a step, she avoided the bloodied appendage by inches, moments before she brought her hands around in front of her and thrust them both into his chest, the blades stabbing into the flesh there and emerging with a sheath of crimson covering each individual knife. It was at this point that she was no longer able to deny her inevitable capture, and his left hand clamped around her throat in a manner that was forceful but still permitted her room to breath. No sooner had he done this than he stepped towards her, pressing his body against hers even as he forced her gaze up towards his face. Two pinpoints of burning red flashed momentarily behind the dark lenses that were staring down at her, an increasingly common occurrence during their liaisons, before he sneered broadly, evidently impressed all the more at even this brief spell of resistance.

"You have improved," he stated, lifting his wounded right arm to bring his fingers to her hairline and gently brush away an errant strand of fiery hair, before softly running the index digit of that same hand over her cheek in a display of affection that was likely motivated more by a notion of possession than any real fondness.

And that was exactly it. Days after he had dredged up her most closely guarded secrets and sent her into a depressive downward spiral, he had returned to her in silence and they had come to a wordless consensus that they would continue their mutual indulgence together. She had reasoned that at least if he were with her then he would not be out hunting down her family or causing more catastrophes in the outside world, and that allowing him the opportunity to partake in the battle for dominance he so seemed to crave would hopefully keep him in a good mood. Lord only knew what a vindictive bastard he was when he was pissed off. Though she had obviously still been quite upset by his knowledge of her past, and required much penance to make up for her betrayal of those people that she had once loved, and still did even if she did keep them at arm's length, eventually she had come to enjoy their pseudo-genial concourse and the undercurrent of struggle that it contained once again. They had solved the problem of her supposed weakness for the plight of others by ignoring it, and that suited her fine. Wesker was not her significant other, he was not someone that she loved, and so there was no need to resolve issues that might affect their relationship. Hating him suited her fine, because his actions made him such a hateful person to begin. It didn't matter what she felt about him personally, because she could never be his friend or lover knowing what he did with his considerable strength. He stood against everything that she believed; having one more reason to despise him really wasn't such a bad thing. Fondness on the part of either of them was superfluous.

"Not finished yet," she replied, smiling sweetly, moments before there was the sound of flesh being tortured and ripped asunder in the general area of his stomach as her gloves thrust into his gut. He grunted quietly in response, the slightest sound of discomfort in spite of the fact that he had almost been disembowelled, and then shoved her away, the motion sending her stumbling backwards and causing her to flail her arms in order to maintain her balance as they came loose from his body. When she finally managed to steady herself, the male was already directly in front of her once again, his right hand seizing her lower jaw roughly, while the other arm snaked around her waist and pulled her flush against him, the warmth of her exhilarated, sweat-soaked skin pressing to the more subtle heat of his, both tangible to the entwined couple even through their clothing.

"I had rather hoped not," he told her, his face hovering mere inches over hers, before he descended to capture her lips with his own. She stumbled back slightly, her posterior bumping against the edge of the circular altar that she had not realised was right behind her. Placing her off-hand against the stone, she lifted the other to press the points at the tips of her blades to his cheek, before drawing them gently across his skin, four parallel strokes opening in his face which began to bleed immediately. She could feel his jaw tense with his arousal even as he continued to dominate her mouth with his, though she openly reciprocated. He began to push her backwards gently, tipping her so that she was resting upon the carved shrine, though he did not break contact with her. Once she was horizontal, she lifted her legs and laced them around his lower back to ward away the tension in that area on her own body from being held in that position.

During the course of their interaction over the last few weeks they had indulged in many old and new pains and pleasures. The razor blades had come out to play several times, occasionally with the added bonus of fire, as well as some rather interesting experiments with acid. She now possessed a rather interesting pattern on her arm from that particular incident, although she had also witnessed the extent of her suitor's regenerative capabilities when she had taken a syringe filled with the corrosive compound that he had brought to her and stabbed it into his arm. The appendage had fallen off moments later, only for another to grow back in its place shortly afterwards, and Wesker had not been pleased with her actions in respect to that injury, though to the best of her knowledge he had not used it as an excuse to go after her estranged family. He was also intent on continuing the charade of her interrogation, and had periodically starved her, adjusted the heating of her habitat to both unbearably hot and cold levels, and even provoked insomnia in her with the aid of agonisingly loud white noise. She had borne each of those punishments with her usual aplomb, and her answer when questioned was always for him to fuck off. They had grown used to that particular exchange, and it seemed that he no longer found it as aggravating as he previously had.

There had been times when he had not wished to torture her, however, and they had simply passed the time in conversation. They avoided the subject of her former life for the sake of harmony, though he seemed much more willing to divulge information of his own history to her now that she had become such a permanent and welcome fixture in his life. Originally he had been adopted by the Spencer family as a potential future husband for the eldest daughter of that bloodline, Annette, though for reasons that he did not care to discuss, another male who had been adopted for the same reason, William Birkin, was chosen for the role instead. He had been raised by a distinguished British couple who were close business associates of Lord Ozwell Spencer, the then-head of the legacy, and it was evident that though he had been a part of high society for the majority of his life, he despised that particular band of individuals with a greater fervour than any special forces unit or uncouth redhead that he had encountered since. In time he had executed a number of Machiavellian schemes, which had culminated in his current position within Umbrella Incorporated. As Chief Executive of the organisation he had manipulated the decisions of Ozwell Spencer and his successor, who was currently serving as Wesker's supposed superior, as well as the government of the United States. With this in mind, it was obvious to Shakahnna why that particular nation was in such disarray.

She had found it hilarious when he had cited absolute power as his goal. It was not that she did not respect his strength and resources, quite the opposite in fact, but his ideals were laughable. The former S.T.A.R.S Lieutenant had amassed strength all her life for the purposes of protecting those that were close to her and defending those who were incapable of doing so through their own efforts from people who meant to do them harm; her feud with the corrupt corporation was a symbol of that. That he possessed more power than she would ever have need of, and squandered it by collecting it the way other people collected stamps, had caused her to become angrier than she had ever been in her life, as well as break out into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. She was amazed that a man with such intelligence and such apparent insight could be so obviously blind to the point of everything, though she did remind herself that this was Wesker she was thinking of. At times he was so dense that even Matt was quicker on the ball than him; at least her former lumbering cohort had been fighting for a cause, even if that cause was only one person.

"We're not doing this," she murmured as their lips parted slowly, her warm breath brushing gently over his features due to their proximity.

"I beg your pardon?" he queried, raising an eyebrow. She continued to stare into the black ellipses that covered the area at the centre of his face, fancying that she could see his monstrous eyes narrow at her words ever so slightly.

"I'm not doing this with you," she informed him, feeling her mouth brush against the pursed line that was his own as she spoke, "this is what you want."

"I had assumed that this was a matter of mutual gratification," he responded, his voice tinged heavily with consternation at her sudden unwillingness. Her honest, emerald eyes watched him, the dark barrier between them giving their interaction a detached nature.

"I be's wanting it too," she confessed, lifting her hand to his shoulder and pressing it gently away from her in a bid to get him to move from their compromising position, unlacing her legs from his waist and placing her feet back upon the gravel below, "but you always talk about power being desirable in its own right, like it's the end you pursue, and it doesn't be like that with us. You be's wanting power over me to get my compliance; its something that you actually, passionately desire, and I can't be letting you have it."

"Indeed?" he asked, rising somewhat and removing his hand from where it was still clasping her chin, "and what has brought about this sudden resolution?"

She let out a short, humourless chuckle, a slight smile appearing on her features. "It's not sudden; its always been that way," she recounted, his apparent agitation growing all the more at this statement, "I've always wanted to punish you for the things you've done, and if I can't physically making you be suffering, if there is nothing that I can take away from you to hurt you, then I can just not be giving you anything. If it's me that you want, then it's even easier for me to keep that from you; being denied is the least you deserve."

He studied her silently for a moment, his frown and her smile differentiated only by the curve of their lips, the emotion of both expressions being one of acute displeasure. Without warning, he lifted away from her completely and allowed her to return to a standing position, removing himself to a position that was several feet away as she hopped down from the altar that he had previously laid her down atop. "Eventually you will come to realise that in resisting me you are denying yourself," he informed her, the frustrated pinch at the bridge of his nose remaining in spite of the neutrality on the remainder of his face, "should you ever wish to be rid of this façade that you present me with then you need only to inform me; I would delight in stripping it from you."

"I'll kick you in the nuts if you ever _try _stripping me, bitch," she told him, placing her hands on her hips and shooting him a look of measured disgust, though she was probably not aware that her cheeks had turned a vibrant shade of scarlet at his comment, "but I guess we'll see, right? Its not gonna happen today, but you can try again tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that. It might take weeks, or months, or years, decades even. Depends on whether spite or lust is the stronger impulse, really."

"Quite," he agreed, bringing his right hand up to idly adjust those strands of his hair that had come loose during his moment of distraction when he and his beloved had seemed to be on the cusp of something that would please them both, "you understand, of course, that if you will not indulge me then I must escort you to your quarters."

"Sometimes you're such a brat, Wesker," she teased, grinning in actual happiness this time as his jaw tensed slightly at her taunt, "okies, let's go back, but you should get me some cigarettes while you're trying to figure out how you're going to get me next time. I think a packet should just about last me the rest of the day."

-

Gathering herself against the cold, Amy Decker walked along the frost-glazed street towards the U.B.C.S checkpoint at the outskirts of the city's "safe-zone". In actuality, this was a misnomer in more ways than one. The small gathering of military vehicles and personnel was said to be on the outskirts, but was in fact several blocks from any actual human presence; this was mainly due to the fact that no one wanted to live in a place that might be overrun by zombies at any time. With every inch that the roaming hordes of undead gained, the living moved a yard in response, until they became a tightly clustered ball raging against the inevitability of their own destruction. That they called this place safe truly was a lie, for that reason and because it was often that humanity was its own worst enemy. Crime went unchecked, and that which the custodians of the country, the individuals who had appointed themselves as the law, recognised were usually punished in overly extreme manners. Vigilante killings and organised lynching was common, and objectors were often subject to the same punishment making them few and far between. The young woman was unsure as to who she feared the most, the zombies for their mindless destruction, or the people who were equally capable of such atrocity, but who justified their actions using words like "justice" and "righteousness". Though they were merely shades of the men and women that they had once been, the flesh-eating ghouls were at least free of that pretension.

She breathed warmth into her chilled fingers, a trail of white steam drifting from her hands as the water vapour cooled instantly in the air, the heavy overcoat covering her ordinary clothing doing little to ward away the chill, and she could not help but feel a little envious of the stocky, dark-haired male beside her, who seemed unfazed by the temperature. They kept an even pace as they approached the parked armoured convoy that marked the exit of the supposed controlled area, neither of them fazed by the heavily armed individuals manning that camp. The majority of the soldiers ignored them, since they were on the wrong side of the barricade to be a threat, but one man, a heavy-set individual in his late twenties with hair cut close to his scalp and carrying an Assault Rifle, came toward them as they made to pass through.

"Hold up," he said, the tone of his voice brisk and indicative of a command, though his choice of words belied his lack of true military discipline, "sorry folks, restricted area past this point."

"I know," the brunette replied, nodding at his words, "but I have something that I need to do."

"That so," the decidedly unsubtle man responded, raising an eyebrow as he looked the female up and down in a manner that made her distinctly uncomfortable at the attention she was being paid, "you know, a pretty girl like you shouldn't be wandering around outside the safe-zone without an escort. It's dangerous out there. I mean, all sorts of bad things could happen to you."

"She has an escort," the man beside her interjected bluntly, drawing the armed U.B.C.S member's attention, the first individual obviously not liking what he was seeing when he noticed that the chestnut-haired maiden's companion was considerably bigger than he was and much more threatening in appearance, though he had managed to be almost completely nondescript prior to choosing to draw attention to himself, "and I fail to see how her attractiveness affects her chances of survival."

"What, you? You're not even carrying..." the trooper began, moments before a knee-length khaki-green trench coat was drawn to the side to reveal a large, heavily-modified revolver holstered beneath a powerfully muscular left arm. There was a moment of silence before he continued. "Yeah, yeah, alright, whatever," he said, holding up his hands away from his weapon and backing away from the couple with an expression that suggested interfering with them was no longer something that he wished to do, before he reached to the bonnet of a nearby Humvee and took up a clipboard, "you guys registered at the survivor's camp? I'll need your names if so."

"We are; it's Amanda Decker and R-..." she started to respond, before the man beside her gripped her arm with his left hand, squeezing at the area beneath her shoulder to draw her attention to him, before he shook his head, staring her in the eye the whole time.

"David Thorne," he finished, without turning his gaze away from her to address the man who was taking down their details, "those are the names that are registered at the shelter."

The soldier looked at them sidelong as they both came to return his questioning glance, neither of them willing to comment on the sudden friction between them. "Right," he grunted, making the necessary notations and then looking back up at them, "twenty four hours to do what you need to do. After that your property gets distributed around the camp, but I guess you already know that by now. Plenty of people went missing after the last incursion."

"We don't really have any property worth distributing," Amy replied, sounding somewhat forlorn at this, as the two of them began to walk through the gathering of vehicles towards the area that was beyond the protection of the Biohazard Countermeasure Service, "not anymore."

They passed in silence out of the fortified blockade and onto the deserted streets, the group of men defending the remaining denizens of the city paying them little heed as they made their way out into what was certain death for most. These roads were littered with burnt out wrecks of cars and the bodies of those who had been unable to survive the various skirmishes between the encroaching undead and the desperate living. Long before they had been overrun, the majority of the houses and businesses here had been looted, mostly to aid in the recovery effort and to provide comfortable sanctuary to those who had been driven from their homes, though naturally some of this crime was not so altruistically motivated. There was a special kind of tragedy about these broken pathways that had once been so full of life, for those few good people who would live through the initial attacks would often return in search of their loved ones and never be heard from again. Those rare selfless beings were gradually dying out, leaving only the cowardly opportunists to defend those that remained. It was no real surprise that the cities of America were slowly being snuffed out one by one, like candles in an increasingly dark room.

"I'm sorry," the female muttered, as the mismatched pair made their way through the dangerous area of the once-thriving community in search of their intended destination, "I almost gave you away."

"Its fine," the man who was apparently named David replied, still as brisk as ever, though displaying a certain degree of personal fondness for his companion that he had obviously not possessed for the sentry who had previously accosted them.

"No, its not, I'm being a burden to you," she told him, the scarf wrapped around her throat muffling her speech, though in these deathly silent avenues her voice was easily heard, "my parents left the country a couple of months ago after I left Shak's cat with them, and they probably think that I'm dead after hearing about Angel being destroyed, so its okay for me to go by my usual name; no one's going to be hurt by that, but I forgot that you still have family involved in this."

"Really, Amy, its fine," the taller of the two asserted again, "and please don't say things like that. You're the only one who knows where the remaining S.T.A.R.S units are in this country and without you I'm just dead wood floating along with the current. If there was one thing that Hague impressed upon me before his suicide then it was that you were in no way expendable. Your knowledge about our own organisation, as well as Umbrella, will make or break this whole operation, and without you we'll never restore this country to a place where people can live freely without fear."

"Thank you," she responded, her voice breaking into a quavering whisper mid-sentence. They continued to walk along the frost-coated tarmac in silence for a moment, and then she spoke up again. "Shak told me before she left that Hague had told her you wanted her out of your unit; is that true?" she asked, confronting an issue that had been bothering her since the redhead's disappearance some months prior now that they were alone to discuss it. She was surprised when the older man nodded, without showing the slightest hint of embarrassment about his conduct towards a woman that Amy had only the utmost respect for. "Why?" she questioned, her eyes narrowing slightly in indication of her annoyance at his frankness, "she only ever wanted to protect you all."

"And in doing so she jeopardised our mission," the dark-haired male answered, evidently a man who was used to speaking his mind when asked for his opinion and not accustomed to putting on airs for the comfort of those whose company he kept, regardless of how he respected or cared for them, "its all well and good to protect your own, but not at the cost of an objective that we had all decided long ago would be worth our lives. I can't begin to comprehend the trauma that she went through, but I won't have her belittle the cause that I have dedicated my every waking moment to by insinuating through her actions that it isn't worth my life, or the lives of anyone else in our group. I have no time for anyone who will stand in the way of achieving that goal, whether they are our enemy or our ally."

"You drove her away," Amy accused angrily, her eyes beading with tears and her face turning red with her embarrassment at reacting in such a manner, even as she remembered losing the last person that she had truly cared for in her life. For a moment, David did not speak, evidently contemplating the circumstances surrounding his former colleague's vanishing act.

"Perhaps," he eventually conceded, though he sounded sceptical.

Walking the empty streets was a harrowing experience for Amy, namely because she had once lived in the neighbourhood that now stood deserted. From their current position, she knew all of the shortcuts back to the housing estate where she had once been raised as a child, the place where she had met Matt for the first time when they had been in their teens, and where she had decided that he was the only one that she ever wanted to be with. There were so many notable firsts connected with that place, so many beautiful memories, that she was tempted to deviate from their amble in order to pay it a visit. When she imagined how it had changed, however, she knew that it was perhaps best if she never laid eyes on it again, lest that tender reminiscence be corrupted by the destruction that could be seen all around. Instead, they simply continued on to their destination, a church on one of the side streets that stood as a familiar landmark between her former home and the school that she had once attended alongside her beloved. They passed through the open gate into the orchard that bordered the old building, the grass that was being allowed to grow unchecked glazed with frost and surrounding numerous trees that were in the process of budding. The ordinarily beautiful surroundings were choked by the darkness and coldness that surrounded them, Umbrella's crime having sapped the life from a place where manmade and natural magnificence had once existed hand-in-hand, faith offsetting growth in harmony.

When she was a youth, her parents had brought her here every Sunday to share the doctrine of their religion. Though they had never had her christened, and though she had received all of the benefits of a secular education, they had at least wished her to acquire the moral imperative that they themselves possessed, and it was that same belief in right and wrong that had eventually motivated her into action against the corporation. She had continued to come here on a weekly basis even when she had decided that she could not believe in a God who would allow such atrocities to befall his creations, though more to spend time with her significant other than to hear the congregation regurgitate the lessons she already knew by heart. During spring there was an abundance of peach, cherry and apple blossom, and the most beautiful flowers grew in the immaculately tended grounds where they had often come to be alone together and make plans for a future that had ultimately never come to pass. They had once decided to be married within that building, and there was a bitter sting to the realisation that this would not happen now. Even without the dedication of a ceremony like that, however, they had been as close as two people could ever have been, and only her vendetta against the organisation she despised was stopping her heart from breaking for him; she knew that if there were any form of life after death then he would want her to finish what she had started. Even though he was gone, the lingering memory of her very own giant would smash away the ugliness and emptiness of the world that she had been left with and gently touch her face to remind her that he loved her the most. When she thought like that, he didn't seem quite so far away.

"Is this the place?" David queried, as they approached the structure's main entrance. Her response was only to nod, confirming for him that this was indeed the location of their rendezvous with some of the remaining members of their underground organisation. Some time after the destruction of Angel and the beginning of their residence at the survivor's camp in Amy's hometown, the resourceful young woman had arranged for them to be reunited with their brothers in arms. That she had managed this with so little to work with had astounded her powerfully-built companion, but was a testament to how useful she had proven to S.T.A.R.S this past year. Her networking and information-gathering skills were insanely overdeveloped for someone who had once been nothing more than an intern.

It was his turn to utilise his skills, however, and he reached into the confines of his jacket to remove the weapon that had frightened the guard several minutes earlier, raising it in his right hand and pushing open the doors to the church with the other. With the female following close behind, he scanned the interior of the lobby critically looking for any hostile presence, before moving into the main chamber. A quick scan of this room revealed nothing more than it had been abandoned long before. Several benches had been taken from either side of the aisle that cut directly down the centre, and those that remained were covered in a thin veil of dust. Any valuables had been stolen from the altar and the organ to the left of that focal point had been shamelessly vandalised. High above, one of the two stained glass windows that brought attention to the place where the minister would stand had been smashed and fallen leaves congregated amid the broken shards on the floor. There were no people here, living, dead or in between. Satisfied that there were no threats, he placed the weapon back into its holster under his arm.

"I'd like a moment alone," she told him, gesturing towards the altar at the other end of the room, "if that's okay."

"I'll wait in the foyer then," he replied, nodding to her in a display of respect for her wishes, evidently seeing nothing wrong with allowing her to kill some time between now and when their contacts joined them, "but you _must_ call me if anything happens, no matter how slight. Likewise, if anything happens then I will come and get you."

"I will," she agreed, before looking down at her feet with a sorrowful look on her face, "I'm sorry for snapping at you."

"I understand the pain of loss," he told her bluntly, moving back to the first chamber that they had entered and placing a hand on the ring of the door that would separate them once it was closed, "I would ask you to save your apologies for when you are actually at fault, but you are forgiven."

"Thank you," she said to him once again, moments before he pulled the portal closed. She stood staring at the entrance for a moment, before sighing heavily and turning back to the aisle behind her, walking the path towards the raised dais at the very rear of the building, her feet kicking up clouds of dust from the long disused carpet. She passed the rows of benches, casting a fond glance at the place where she had once sat with her family during the weekly sermons, before climbing the trio of steps that let to the podium from which those readings were given. Once there, before the bare, wooden box that she had once spent so much of her time looking up at, she raised her arms and placed her elbows atop its surface, lacing her fingers and placing her pale lips against the chilled skin of her hands. She closed her eyes and began to speak.

"I suppose even if you can hear me then you can't answer, I mean, I spoke to you for years and you never said anything to me. Maybe you aren't really there, or perhaps you are, but you're so big that one person's voice is too quiet for you to hear. If that's the case then why can't you hear us all in unison, crying out for you to save us? Its true that man's suffering is man's fault for the most part, but just because that is the case doesn't give you the right to let it happen. Sitting on your hands is a sin that you yourself have punished people for. For an omniscient, all-powerful being, you really aren't as glorious as my parents always made out. Even I'm trying harder than you, and I'm just one, weak little girl. I realise how futile it is to shout out into space and expect any answer other than an echo, if that, but at this point I'll try anything. I have to believe that someone out there can make the difference that I can't seem to make. So if you are out there and you can hear me then please, no more death, no more suffering, no more of this; I'm begging you."

She screwed her eyes shut tightly, droplets beading at the corners of her eyes as she uttered those words to the empty air. "Touching," a voice uttered from somewhere directly behind her, causing her to start suddenly and cry out, before she turned to face the person who had not been there moments before, placing her back to the podium that she had previously been leaning upon. Her tear-filled cerulean orbs came to rest upon the figure of a man who was taller than her even though she were standing atop the steps before the altar, clad in black formal attire and wearing a pair of darkly-tinted sunglasses upon the bridge of his slender nose. She shrank back against the surface behind her, recognising him as the man whom Shakahnna had spoken of, the man that had murdered her one true love. There was a horror in her expression, however, that belied a deeper familiarity with this individual.

"No," she breathed, feeling as though his very presence was crushing her, "it can't be you. You can't be here."

He stepped toward her, and had it been possible for her to shrink back further then there was no doubt that she would have done it. "Tsk, tsk, Amanda, this is not the correct manner in which to renew old acquaintances," Albert Wesker chastised, the thin sneer on his face making her cringe in terror, "I must say that I had always been curious as to why S.T.A.R.S seemed so knowledgeable of my affairs; now that I find one of my former employees in confederacy with them, however, the matter is suddenly not quite so perplexing. Incidentally, such disloyalty necessitates some measure of retribution."

Trembling with fear and an equal measure of adrenaline, the young woman's hands balled into fists and she took a deep breath, her beautiful features creasing into a bitter, aggressive frown. "You think I could turn away knowing what you were doing?" she shrieked out, forcing herself to stand up to him lest she crumple in the face of the panic he instilled in her, "you were killing people; more than that, you were torturing them, experimenting on them, turning them into monsters. What kind of person turns the other cheek to that?"

"Many have," the blond informed her casually, the worst aspect of this statement being its brutal honesty, "and those many have profited from doing so; others have suffered needlessly because they were unwilling to simply do nothing."

"I could never," she asserted angrily, "but it doesn't matter. There are other S.T.A.R.S coming; they'll kill you."

"That would be an unlikely outcome, dear heart," he stated, pausing to adjust his sunglasses idly with his right index fingers, "unfortunately, I was unable to locate the individuals you had hoped to contact. I was, however, able to arrange this little reunion between the two of us, and now that I have you the destruction of that organisation is assured."

The pretty brunette's face became ashen as he spoke, her body betraying her as her courage fled away. She broke, running along the raised platform on which the altar was set towards a small door on the right side of the wide chamber, though in her frantic bid to escape she broke the cardinal rule of retreat and looked over her shoulder to see if the individual who was terrorising her was giving chase. When she saw that he was no longer behind her she turned her eyes back to the path ahead, only to crash face first into his chest and slam to the ground painfully. He loomed over her as she tried to climb to her feet, feeling all hope slowly dying, and turned her face to the doors that led to the building's foyer, the damp tracks on her face giving her miserable expression that much more weight.

"David..." she murmured, reaching out towards the church's entrance hall with her right hand, desperately hoping that he would come for her like he had said he would.

"He cannot save you, my dear," Wesker interjected, "he could not even save himself."

The outstretched arm curled into her body as she began to sob quietly, the last, smallest fragment of hope that she could hold onto falling away from her. There was no resistance left in her when he reached down to grip her wrist and lifted her to her feet, gently guiding her towards the doorway and the inevitability of her fate.


	8. Episode Four Point One

**Weskerian Says:** Hey all. Just wanted to let you know that this is where it starts to get really graphic. The next few chapters until the ending are going to be full of violence and quite heavy on the bad, bad things happening, so I would urge anyone with a weak constitution to use their discretion. Let it never be said that you were not warned.

**Episode Four Point One: Don't Utter A Single Word**

When Shakahnna awoke it was to the startling realisation that she was vertical. This was odd, as she did not usually sleep standing up, and now that she had experienced it for the first time she was finally aware of why that was the case. She was sore all over, particularly in her arms which were stretched over her head and restrained at their wrists, and in her toes, which were curled and pressed into the floor with the full weight of her body resting upon them. Moving to remedy this discomfort, she placed her feet flat on the floor, wriggling the stubby digits at the ends in a bid to massage the discomfort from them, realising somewhat bitterly that Wesker had stolen her fucking boots. Now that she was standing upright, the stiffness in her shoulders relaxed somewhat, though her upper limbs remained lifted to the heavens by the heavy, metal manacles that were attaching them by heavy chains to the ceiling above. The base of her palms were sore from where she had been hanging from them and the edges of the shackles had cut into her skin, leaving shallow openings that bled along the lengths of her forearms. Shaking away the last vestiges of her exhaustion and focusing on being awake, she became aware that she was no longer in her cell. This new chamber was, as far as she could tell, composed entirely of dark grey stone, the feel of it cold and alien on the soles of her feet in comparison with the white linoleum she had grown used to in her previous quarters. She was unsure as to the rest of the dungeon's appearance, as a single shaft of light illuminated the area of the room directly around her and not much else. Squinting into the darkness, she tried to make out the fleeting shapes in the shadows beyond the corona of brightness that shone down on her from above, unsure as to whether there was actually anything there or if her eyes were simply playing tricks on her.

"What the fuck, Wesker?" she snapped, well aware of who would be responsible for this change in décor.

There was a rattle from somewhere directly in front of her, the sound of a metal instrument being placed upon a metal tray among other metal instruments, and for a moment the young female's mind boggled as to what it was that she had just heard. Before she was able to come to any conclusion, however, her sadistic paramour spoke up in response to her question. "You join me at last, dear heart," he purred, the spotlight above her reflecting on the darkened lenses of his sunglasses before he emerged into the pool of white that surrounded her, "I thought it best not to wake you and made these preparations while you slept. I trust that this does not vex you too greatly."

"Fuck off, you fucking dirty, window-licking, cum-guzzling, fucking..." she trailed off as she cast around for a suitable insult to finish off her tirade, hoping that the stream of expletives would be enough to convince him that she was quite irate at these steps he had taken while she had been unconscious, "fucker!"

He seemed unimpressed with the conclusion of her furious diatribe, though he seemed to have understood the sentiment behind it. Ignoring her words, he strode towards her, raising his right hand to seize the curve of her jaw between his thumb and forefinger so that he could hold her head in place and match her defiant gaze with the emotionless stare of his own covered eyes. She wriggled in his grasp, trying to free herself, though she had known for many months now that resisting him physically was an almost impossible task. "Understand, my dear, that these crude bonds are but the first step in what I intend for this occasion," he informed her, adjusting his grip as she squirmed away from him so that his fingers were gently clasped around her throat, "I am certain that you will find today's undertakings appealing to those delightful predilections of yours."

"Don't get your hopes up, bitch," she retorted, once she had finally resigned herself to being held in place by the blond and was no longer choking from where his digits were pinching her trachea a little too tightly. It had been almost a fortnight since she had spurned his advances in the labyrinth at the rear of his abode, and apart from a short, two-day period when he had been absent immediately afterwards, he had visited her daily in his efforts to secure her compliance. Thus far he had failed, though the redhead was forced to admit that she had been sorely tempted to abandon her vow to punish him in favour of the increasingly inviting alternative. Unfortunately for him, her resolve was stronger than temptation, and she had continued to deny them both what they truly desired. Once again she could feel the familiar knot of anticipation tying in her stomach that she had come to associate with her body betraying her mind and cursed herself silently, though even amid her thoughts there was a traitorous seed threatening to sprout and force her to concede to his seduction.

The sneer upon his features was almost tangible as he released the grip on her neck and traced the curves of her torso, keeping his hand at a respectful distance though this did not stop the motion from making the young woman blush. When he reached her stomach, he curled his fingers into the material of her S.T.A.R.S uniform's short-sleeved shirt so that it was pulled tightly around her midriff, never once taking his eyes away from hers. "I must remove this garment," he told her bluntly, the tension of the hold that he was maintaining on the fabric at her abdomen increasing imperceptibly as he prepared to do just that.

"Wesker! Don't you fucking dare!" she cried out almost as soon as the words had left his mouth, realising immediately what it was that he was intending to do, moments before there was the sound of tearing and the cloth that comprised the upper part of her fatigues was ripped to pieces. Stitches unravelled and broke, several particularly resilient strands cutting into her body as they were wrenched away from her skin in one swift motion, leaving her torso naked aside from the simple white, cotton brazier that was still hugging her buxom form. Before he had even managed to discard the item, however, she lunged forward, burying her foot in his crotch with such force that it knocked him backwards and dropped him to one knee, his sunglasses clattering to the floor in front of him as his head bowed and they came loose from his features.

Her restraints rattled as she went to kick him again, the movement falling far short of his position and causing her to rock backwards into a stationary position while hanging from the cuffs, glaring at him from behind a tattered and matted veil of flame red hair that hung down over her face in places and gave her an angry and dishevelled look. As she placed her feet back beneath her once again, the sadistic male retrieved his shades and returned to an upright stance, replacing the item back upon the bridge of his nose, though not before she was able to see the familiar flare of bright red from his pupils as he covered them. She began to fidget as he regarded her form critically, curling her shoulders and attempting to turn her body away in an attempt to avoid his gaze. Though evidently uncomfortable with the thought of nudity, Shakahnna was nevertheless a physically perfect specimen. The muscular forearms that were regularly displayed through her liking for short-sleeved shirts were complimented by a pair of larger biceps that in turn led to broad, powerful shoulders, and below the ample bust that remained restrained beneath her underwear, which had been emblazoned with the S.T.A.R.S emblem through personal preference, could be seen an exquisitely defined abdomen composed of six equal sections of solid muscle. Though most would not have considered her beautiful, Wesker considered most to be fools; this was an individual who possessed and realised the value of strength, a formidable opponent against whom to test his own power, and what could be more attractive than that? "You are a lady of unimpeachable honesty as always, my dear," he commented, referring to her threat from two weeks previous in regards to his attempts at stripping her.

"Fuck you!" she spat angrily, abandoning her attempts to preserve her modesty in favour of straining at her shackles in a desperate bid to kick his fucking head in, the absolute rage that she was feeling quelling the feelings of embarrassment that she was also subject to at that current moment. He sneered at the two words that had become something of an axiom for her during her time in his hospitality, before wordlessly reaching to the knot of the tie around his neck and loosening it in one swift movement.

"I felt that I should make a token gesture in order to facilitate your comfort," he informed her, as her unwaveringly aggressive stare gave way momentarily to one of confusion as he removed the tress from around his throat and cast it aside in much the same way as he had done the tattered remains of her shirt. No sooner had he discarded that item, he turned the attention of his fingers to the buttons of his jacket. She had seen these movements before, the day that he had branded her with the logo of the organisation she despised, and was already well aware that he was disrobing himself in much the same way that he had done her, although with admittedly greater care. Though he evidently wished her to recognise his actions, and as such was not using his true speed, there was a degree of impatience to the way that his digits moved across the front of his blazer that belied an eagerness he ordinarily restrained beneath his composed and orderly façade.

She continued to glare at him, unwilling to allow him to cow her into obedience with the embarrassment of her current state of undress and his own actions. Even though her face flushed bright scarlet as he removed his shirt, she refused to stop matching his gaze, determined to defeat him if there was to be a clash of wills. The scars that she had inflicted upon him over the course of the months that she had spent in captivity had all long-since healed, leaving only the perfectly-defined musculature that he had honed over the course of many years in much the same way that she had. In spite of their physical differences, height, build, hair colour, the one comparison that could be made between them was the almost visible strength in their bodies, and as Wesker had expressed already, what else was important? With the majority of his preparations made, he moved his hand to adjust his sunglasses and then idly discarded them when he deemed them unnecessary. Her head turned away instinctively as he approached her, though she kept her narrowed eyes upon him even as he circled her in a predatory manner and came to stand behind her, his right arm encircling her torso and coming to rest over her abdomen while the other reached under her own left arm and seized her jaw for the second time since she had been brought to this chamber. She arched her back in an effort to avoid the contact of his well-muscled torso, though was unable to prevent due to how tightly he was gripping her.

"I feel that I should be candid with you, my love," he stated, bringing his lips to within the merest fraction of an inch of her ear, his words a gentle purr that caused her face to flush all the more in spite of how red it currently was due to his proximity, "you are perfection in my eyes, and I would rather you remain eternally in my custody than consort with those of debatable worthiness."

She remained silent even as she could feel the smooth, white pearls that made up his sadistic smile come to bite down on the uppermost part of her ear, gently grinding into the thin piece of flesh and drawing blood with a tantalisingly painful laceration. Her body tensed, somewhere between pain and pleasure, acceptance and defiance. "Don't touch me," she snarled through gritted teeth, as angry at herself for even contemplating allowing this to continue as she was at him for assuming he had the right to do this to her after the crimes that he had committed. He paused for a moment, continuing to clasp her face and embrace her about the stomach, before he reluctantly removed himself from her and vanished from her sight, moving out of the cone of illumination and back into the darkness.

Unsure as to whether he actually had a purpose for this, or whether he was simply trying to fuck with her mind, Shakahnna strained to look back over her shoulder into the shadows that made up the majority of the room, attempting to locate him. Her head snapped back to align with her shackled body, however, when she heard the clatter of metal before her, the noise putting her in mind of when she had first woken up. She cast around for any sign of the male, only for him to emerge from the impenetrable shade a moment later. There was a look of subtle self-satisfaction on his face as he strode towards her, the roving emerald eyes of the captive female noticing the discrepancy of the item clutched in his right hand. He wore what appeared to be a series of four metal rings linked by a flat edge that rested across the base of his fingers in much the same manner as brass knuckles would have. The young woman had encountered these particular weapons on several occasions in the past and was familiar with them enough to know that most did not usually have four razor sharp blades perfectly aligned with the digits, giving them a look that was more similar to her cat's claws than any other kind of weapon.

"What be's those?" she asked suspiciously, eyeing the weapon attached to his right appendage with a thousand thoughts rushing through her head, none of them really looking very good for her.

"Though I will admit that this implement bears more than a passing resemblance to your weapon of choice," he began, pausing just out of arm's reach of her position and addressing her from that point in a business-like tone, "it is in fact known as a tiger's claw. I believe that the two disciplines may be related, however, this is not a device employed in combat. Rather it is utilised in interrogation; when applied to the flesh of a captive I have heard that it can prove most harrowing."

"Interrogation?" the former S.T.A.R.S member scoffed, "you still trying to sell me that bridge, Wesker?"

"As I told you previously, dear heart, I intend to be truthful with you," the blond replied, still wearing his mask of understated smugness as he addressed her, "this is torture that I do not expect to yield answers; rather I expect it to provide us both with a great deal of gratification. That is, of course, why I see no reason to grant you a concession in return for your cooperation."

She glowered at this remark, though in truth she reasoned that considering her restraints, bargaining for her compliance was hardly necessary. He was going to do this to her whether she decided to give him her permission or agreed to terms beforehand and there was little she could do about it but enjoy it. That thought made her both cringe and flush in equal measures, horrified at the thought of accepting anything he did as pleasurable but undeniably aroused by the fact that it would be a pleasure, whether she accepted it or not. "You first," she growled, suddenly intent on avoiding his stare, looking over his right shoulder in a bid to not have to watch the thoroughly unpleasant expression on his face.

Wesker's smile widened as she spoke, recognising the game that they so often played, and though the situation was different this time, he could see no reason why he should not play along. Flexing his fingers around the rings pressed to his knuckles, he lifted his right arm and pressed the four equally spaced blades into the flesh of his left pectoral, the small knives slicing through the smooth skin and sculpted muscle there easily, before dragging the implement diagonally across his chest and onto his abdomen, the sharpened claws ploughing through the front of his torso. The four parallel gouges that ran the entirety of his midsection were deep and bloody, the crimson fluid of his veins overflowing from the furrows and leaving vertical trails that linked the wounds in various places. He gave a grunt, momentarily showing the strain of the punishment he was inflicting upon himself as he reached his right hip, before he removed the Tiger's Claw from where it was embedded in his body. It took the young female before him a moment to remember herself and avert her gaze once again when she suddenly became aware that she had been staring at him the whole time. Her face turned a bright shade of scarlet in her embarrassment as he strode towards her, the rents in his chest and stomach already fusing together into dark lines of scar tissue; fairly soon they would be gone completely, leaving only the vermilion-hued liquid that had yet to dry staining his skin. "I would not be so discourteous as to use a soiled implement such as this upon you, my love," he informed her, coming to stand directly in front of her as his left hand sank into the pocket of his trousers and withdrew a neatly embroidered silk handkerchief, which he used to wipe away the gore staining the four blades attached to his opposing limb.

"How kind of you," she sneered sardonically, still considerably frustrated about the fact that he had ripped off her shirt. Even if she had been comfortable with being half-naked, she had liked that top; during her imprisonment, she had washed it in the sink along with her trousers and underwear so that she would never have to change them for the garments that Wesker had brought her on various occasions, all of them possessing the Umbrella insignia somewhere in their stitching. Now she wasn't going to be able to have that part of her fatigues back because it was lying in shreds somewhere beyond the corona of light that was surrounding her and she was unwilling to forgive him for that.

He offered her nothing but a callous sneer, walking around her with soft, measured steps that she continued to watch with narrowed eyes until he was directly behind her and no longer within her range of vision. Once he was there she tensed, lifting her head to confront the light that was shining down on her from above, gritting her teeth and clenching her hands into fists where they were suspended over her head, aware of what it was that the man was intending to do to her. "Are you prepared, my dear?" he queried, scrutinising the sudden rigidity of her heavily-muscled back. She nodded, knowing that she had done all she could and that he was unlikely to wait for her to decide when she was ready. There was a stab between her shoulder blades and then his arm whipped downwards, the motion igniting a trail of agony along the length of her taut reverse at the same time as it sliced cleanly through the horizontal strap of her brazier. Her back arched in response to the pain, though she cried out for an entirely different reason, registering her sudden agitation at having her underwear torn apart. Fortunately for her, the elevation of her arms combined with the sweat and grime on her skin ensured that the item of clothing remained exactly where it was supposed to. This did not make her any less displeased, however.

"For fuck's sake," she growled angrily, her entire body twitching uncontrollably at the sensation of the thin scores on her back, the feel of them almost like an itch that she was unable to scratch. They were shallow and though painful, were merely a taste of the punishment she was likely to endure in the next few minutes. Were it not for the fact that she was now very nearly topless she would have most likely begun to feel that familiar knot of anticipation and dread growing in her stomach; instead any pleasure she might have derived from the torture was suppressed in favour of the outrage that she was feeling after having been almost completely stripped of her decency.

He ignored her outburst, bringing the implement affixed to his right hand to meet her skin again and quickly drawing it down so that the number of parallel streaks marring the flesh of her back doubled in number. She arched again, this time suppressing the cry that rose from her throat, wanting to deny him the pleasure of hearing her suffer, before returning to her neutral position, breathing heavily all the while. No sooner had she even begun to recover from the second set of wounds than he repeated the motion a third time, bringing the total of the bloody wounds to twelve. She grunted through her clenched teeth, spittle flying from her lips as she swung forward on her chains, trying desperately to strike a balance between moving enough to quell the fire that was running up and down her back and keeping still to prevent her loosened undergarment from falling down. Without breaking stride, Wesker carved a further set of unbearably aggravating grooves along the muscular canvas that he had been presented with causing her to buck involuntarily once more, moments before he delivered a fifth stroke to her back, the sudden jolts of pain causing her to tense and screw her eyes shut as she fought to keep her breathing regular and the hurt restrained. She sagged against her chains, feeling the sharp throb of each of the twenty long, paper thin gouges combined with the heat in her body that was causing her to flush, which stood in sharp contrast to the chill of the flagstones beneath her bare feet.

"I return," the blond purred from behind her after a moment, causing her to lift her head in an attempt to look at him over her shoulder.

"You didn't go anywhere," she informed him in between pants, sweat-soaked red tresses preventing her from glimpsing him and leading her to simply turn her eyes back to the area of the chamber in front of her that she could see without expending any real effort.

"On the contrary, dear heart," he said, running the fingers of his left hand along the narrow gashes that ran parallel to her spine, causing her to arch once more, "now that I have retrieved the next tool we can progress to the second stage of this affair."

Shakahnna began to ask what it was that he meant by that but bit her tongue, electing instead to simply ready herself. Once again her body tensed, muscles going rigid beneath skin as she set her feet apart and balled her hands into fists above her, her arms pulling the restraints attached to her wrists taut as she did so. No sooner had she even begun to psyche herself up for the next wave of punishment than the first stroke of the second stage came, tracing the very first wounds she had suffered exactly, but drawing deeper into her flesh than before. She clenched her teeth, letting out a restrained hiss as the implement in his hand raked her back, these new gouges bleeding profusely almost immediately. It was painful, excruciatingly so, but the first could not compare to the second that came swiftly after it. This time she threw back her head and gasped aloud, unable to quite restrain her reaction in time, hard-pressed to match his pace. Though he was quick to follow up with each new swipe, she was in no doubt that he was still wiping the remaining epidermis and blood from the blades every time as he had already stated he would. It was hardly out of character for him to be quick about doing it, but she suspected that the reason he was not giving her time to stew between each stroke was because he was growing ever more impatient himself.

A third rake sliced deeply into pre-existing grooves on her back, once again causing her to buck forward, crying out loudly into the stone dungeon in a manner that reverberated from the walls and clamoured around her as she sank back to rest upon her shackles. She breathed deeply and quickly, holding a breath and tensing sharply moments before the next slash came, this one eliciting a louder, more prolonged scream from her throat. Twisting against her restraints, the young woman squirmed as hot, crimson fluid cascaded down her reverse from the open wounds littering that part of her anatomy, feeling her whole body flush as she came to ignore the destruction of her clothing and focus solely on the torture that she was enduring. Thoughts of the tentative position of her brazier and the shredding of her shirt had given way to the primal connection between pleasure and pain, and the knowledge that this punishment was finally beginning to become enjoyable for her. The final swipe sliced four trails of fire along the length of her flesh, this motion causing her to groan throatily, the mood of her reactions having changed almost completely. Such was her distraction that she was unconcerned with Wesker's sudden proximity as he placed the heavy musculature of his stomach and chest to her back, the blood from their respective wounds combining in the press of their skin as he placed a hand to her taut stomach and moved his lips to gently caress the upper curve of her right ear.

"Am I to understand that you are enjoying this, my love?" he queried, gently running the fingers of his other hand along the widened gouges in her back. Her response was simply to moan unintelligibly, arching her back and resting her head upon his shoulder behind her.

"Its not enough," she told him, bringing his caresses to a halt. After a moment of studying her expression, he departed from her, allowing her to find her feet upon the slate floor as he moved to retrieve yet another implement from the tray that was still out of her sight. Her head hung forward, cheeks burning as a side effect of the arousal that was also causing her upper legs to press together in a bid to gain some manner of actual gratification. As distasteful as it was in her present company, she was no longer certain that she really cared. Indeed, she was elated when she could once again sense the blond's presence behind her, relaxing into a blood-soaked embrace as he wrapped an arm about her midriff a third time. Upon his ensanguined right hand was a third variation on the tiger's claw, this device composed of steel rings and blades that were little more than cruelly hooked barbs. She flushed simply from the appearance, perfectly willing to entertain the wonderful juxtaposition of agony and rapture they might bring to her. Without a word, he released her and permitted her to tense in preparation, a slight smile touching the corners of her lips.

The first cut was harsh, the four daggers entering her flesh and travelling the exact same course as the very first wounds he had given her, just as she had expected, but tearing into her with a ferocity that all of the previous slashes had lacked. Skin and muscle tore along the edges of the lacerations, opening the rents that much wider and causing blood to weep in torrents along their lengths. She cried out, almost fancying that she could feel the metal dragging along the bone beneath her skin, rattling on her spinal column and the back of her rib cage. It was agony, and she screamed loudly, the noise descending into low, deep breaths that in turn morphed in her throat into husky chuckles as the burning between her thighs increased in intensity, the feel of her blood spattering hot on the back of her bare feet arousing her all the more. Her reaction was the same for the second, third and fourth, the blinding intensity of the trauma causing her body to tremble and her pulse to pound loudly in her ears, drowning out the sound of the chains rattling above her head as she twisted in their grip. She knew, however, that the torment had not yet reached its conclusion, and even as he came to hold her once again she had braced herself, feeling the knives plunge into her upper back before he drew them downwards, this final caress possessing an excruciating tenderness that was coldly sadistic and yet warmly affectionate at the same time. She felt the motion build to a crescendo and then he withdrew the sharpened points from her blood-soaked reverse with a painful tug. With that wound completed she continued to let out small gasps that were at once agonised and contented, her legs buckling under her and leaving her supported only by her constraints and the arm of her lover.

Wesker reached to the shackles enclosing her right wrist and gently released them from where they were holding her arm aloft, permitting the appendage to fall, though she caught the limb as it did so and moved it to hold her sundered brazier to her bust. He did the same for her left arm, allowing it to follow a similar course to its predecessor, before stooping to lower her to the ground, ensuring to place her on her side so that she was not lying on the ruined flesh of her back. She murmured weakly, momentarily drained from the sensory exertion she had just suffered, her face alight with the bloom of her cheeks, a damp track having worked its way down each rounded side of her face from her eyes, which were glazed and dilated. In spite of this, she seemed content, though she was evidently suffering considerably from the grievous harm he had done her. Once he had placed her in a position that satisfied him, he rose to a standing position, looking down upon her with his usual neutrality restored.

"Rest," he commanded of her, though she was in no state to respond, before turning away and striding out of the corona of light into the shadows, "I shall return shortly."

-

With her back flayed to ribbons there was little that Shakahnna could do but await the return of her darkly suitor. Too physically and mentally drained, and in far too much pain to move, she wasn't even certain that there was anywhere for her to move to. Though she couldn't imagine Wesker's imminent return to be good for her, there were no other courses of action open to her at current. Lying on her side and feeling the warm crimson fluid that was flowing in rivers from the rents in her flesh pooling on the stone behind her, she breathed heavily and deeply, wondering if perhaps she was damaged a little too badly this time. Were she capable of jolting upright then it was likely she would have done so when the room was suddenly enveloped in bright white luminescence several minutes later and a stack of folded cloth was placed in front of her, before what appeared to be a pair of heavy, leather boots were set down beside them. She glanced at them and reached out a hand weakly, clutching at the item at the very top of the pile and pulled it loose. It appeared to be a brazier, and a quick, admittedly quite confused examination of the item revealed that it lacked any trace of the hated Umbrella Corporation logo. That same investigation also turned up something else that was rather surprising.

"My size," she murmured, her voice trembling from the fact that she was actually unable to keep her body steady due to the combined impact of her agony and lack of blood.

"I took the liberty of preparing this attire for you several hours ago," he informed her from somewhere that was out of her range of vision, but which was still close by, "I trust that your comment confirms that my estimations of your measurements are indeed correct."

"Uhuh," she replied weakly, placing the garment back with the pile as best she could, moments before she felt two powerful hands grip her shoulders and turn her onto her front, where she placed her elbows upon the cold flooring beneath her and propped herself up. She was somewhat unsure as to what it was that he was intending, however, there was something rather more gentle about how he was directing her movements that made it easier for her to cooperate with him, whereas otherwise she would likely have fought with him regardless of what she believed he had in mind. Since he seemed to be in a charitable mood, she was prepared to momentarily indulge him, though admittedly the state of her back would make it difficult for her to mount any form of respectable resistance.

There was the sound of rummaging, of someone looking for something specific amid a number of plastic containers and wrappers, before locating what they had been searching for. A cap was removed with a pop and then there was a rattling sound that sounded much like an aerosol being prepared, before that assumption was confirmed by the noise of spraying. Unsure as to what was occurring, the redhead lay still for a moment. Her patience was rewarded by the feeling of something soft, a cloth of some kind, being applied to the ruined skin of her back. Wesker had begun to clean away the blood that was staining her body with an almost affectionate gentleness, though the area was still immensely tender and throbbed with even the slightest pressure on his part. He wiped her reverse clean, continuing to do so until all of the congealed fluid had been removed and the wounds had ceased producing a fresh supply, the spray he had applied to the cloth apparently acting as some form of external coagulant for open wounds as well as simply a cleaning liquid. Once he had completed this task there was a further rustling, moments before another spray was readied. This one was applied immediately to the fissures marring her creamy flesh, and seared her to the bone. The pain was unbelievably potent even in the aftermath of what she had just experienced, but she was almost immediately aware that it was some kind of sterilising agent. It burned in a manner that was akin to the corrosive he had once used on her, but felt as though it were going that much deeper due to the fact that he was lacing her injuries with it.

"Christ, Wesker," she muttered, though the feel of it had woken her up considerably and she no longer needed to fear bleeding to death. To die in such an ignoble manner, while still in his captivity, would have been a slap in the face to the people whose memories she still needed to avenge.

"My apologies, but such actions are necessary," he stated, to which she nodded her head, wincing slightly as he began to apply adhesive strips to her skin, bridging the gaps between her wounds and making her back feel whole again, "such grave injuries cannot be permitted to go untreated."

"You think I'm going to be giving up just because you change things up a bit and start being nice?" she asked, as he gently massaged each of the sticky lengths onto her violated flesh to keep them free from airborne pollutants that might cause infection and also to promote the growth of scar tissue that would seal the wounds, "put on a few bandages and all is forgiven? You don't get any extra points for fixing what you broke in the first place, you know?"

"Are you referring to our current situation, my dear, or more pertinent matters?" he queried, sounding somewhat amused. She just shook her head, permitting him to finish his work. After a short while he spoke up once more. "Might I enquire as to what it is that you want, Shakahnna?" he said, continuing his questioning.

"You first," she said, smiling slyly. There was a moment of silence as his fingers pressed at the tape covering her back, ensuring that it was not going to simply peel away from her once he was no longer applying pressure. Occasionally he would locate a strip that would not remain in place in spite of his best efforts and removed it with a swift tear that caused her to wince.

"You wish me to continue with my previous candour?" he asked her, replacing the adhesive bandages that he had previously removed with fresh ones.

"Be's a nice change of pace, thou lying sack of shit," she replied, bending her legs at the knee and kicking her feet idly as she waited for him to finish. That comment brought a short, humourless chuckle from his pursed lips as he completed his work on her dressings, before his hands withdrew from her body and he seemed to contemplate the question.

"I want you," he eventually decided, the answer causing her to raise an eyebrow sceptically, before she rolled onto her side and shot a look back at him where he was kneeling beside her. She flushed when she realised that he was still shirtless, but locked eyes with him regardless, her own honest emeralds clashing with his mutated, cat-like irises. After a moment of confrontation, she rocked back to her starting position, as though satisfied that he had meant what he had said. She had vast amounts of evidence to support his claims and while most men favoured flowers and chocolates for those whom they had affection, or at least a desire to possess, Wesker was not most men. Admittedly, that was why she felt compelled to be with him also. "I am waiting, my dear," he pointed out after a brief pause, causing her to remember that she had yet to answer the question that he had originally posed. She too allowed a brief period of silence before she gave her answer.

"Justice," she told him, kicking her feet again," I want the world to be being a nice place where good people can live. I don't want there to be anymore of what there is at the moment. All the people dying, all the bad things happening; it needs to stop."

"You remain undeterred by your previous failures," he commented, and though she was unsure as to whether this was merely supposed to be an observation or whether he was questioning her, she was still fairly insulted by his words.

"Fuck off, I never failed," she responded haughtily, before she paused, biting her lower lip as images of murdered men wearing the same uniform that she had previously been clad in appeared in her mind's eye. Maybe once, she added, subconsciously. "I did my best with what I had, but it was kind of difficult to make there be being any big changes when all I could really do was raid an Umbrella facility here and there, and hope that made some kind of impact. I'm not excusing my lack of results, but with better resources I could do so much more."

He laid his hands upon her again as she finished, checking the integrity of the binds upon her reverse, and in the moment of silence something clicked like a key turning in a lock inside Shakahnna's mind. She rolled over onto her side once again, fixing him with her earnest stare for a second time. "You know," she began, tilting her head slightly, "you be's having lots of resources; you almost be having the world at your disposal, and just do nothing with it."

"I would hardly consider my global operations to be nothing, dear heart," the blond pointed out, though she interrupted him by lifting the index finger of her left hand and holding it up in front of him in a gesture that silently told him to wait for her to finish.

"Can you honestly say that you derive any kind of pleasure from living the way you do? Fawning over people you hate just so that you can manipulate them into giving you things you don't really want? It's disgusting, perverse; it makes me feel sorry for you," she informed him, turning over completely and sitting up, cradling her loosened brazier in her arms in order to prevent it from slipping off, the two of them positioned side-by-side on the floor, "you said you want me, and I can give you that, but in return you have to give me your resources. Give me everything you've worked to build and let me do what I want with it, and you'll never have to worry about that ever again. I'll give you everything you actually want and you'll do the same for me; it just makes more sense than the way we're doing things now."

"That is a rather brazen offer to make considering that you are my prisoner, Miss Morgan," her kneeling suitor replied, "one would argue that I need not trade everything that I have built for something which I already have possession of."

"You don't have me, Wesker, as much as you would love to be's being pretending otherwise," she told him bluntly, the matter-of-fact tone in which she delivered this statement causing his jaw to clench as though she had just outright spurned him again rather than simply explained how things were, "but you can, you know? It sounds like a tall order when you think about it in material terms, but think about it; not like am asking you to give up something you actually have any kind of fondness for."

He was silent for a moment, the tension in the lower half of his face having eased away for the time being as he seemed to consider the proposition that she had set for him, examining it from all possible perspectives and mulling the concepts that it entailed over. It was not uncommon for Wesker to make agreements with people; indeed, he had found them very lucrative in the past, much to the chagrin of those that he had made said-agreements with. However, in those previous cases he had always been the individual in control of the situation. It was aggravating for him to know that in this context he was at the mercy of someone who he kept confined to a concrete cell beneath his home. His jaw clenched again, the flesh at the bridge of his nose pinching into a frown as only one course of action presented itself to him from an entirely rational standpoint. "It would appear that I am compelled to accept this offer," he said, matching her gaze as she stared him down again, doing her utmost to determine whether he truly was willing to acquiesce to those terms. The expression on her face expressed to him that she would believe it when she saw it.

"I need a gesture of good faith," she stated, eliciting a raised eyebrow from her paramour, who non-verbally questioned as to what that was, "stop hunting S.T.A.R.S. Leave them alone, stop your goons from following them around and I'll call them off in my own time."

He lifted his head, regarding her with an expression that was slightly perplexed by this second part of the agreement and amused at her continuing audacity in equal measures. She supposed that she was essentially asking him to give up his hobby of a past ten years, if not more; it would have been the same as someone asking her to stop keeping a league table, but for the right price she would do it gladly. The words he next spoke surprised her no end. "Very well," he conceded, "I will no longer concern myself with the plight of that organisation. In return, I require a similar indulgence in order to afford this arrangement my credence."

There was a moment of discomfort on her part as her body broke out in a sudden cold sweat at his words, momentarily unsure as to what it was that he wished of her. She cottoned on almost immediately, however, and slowly adjusted her position so that she was kneeling immediately in front of him. Abandoning her grip on the shredded garment hanging across her chest, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself up so that their faces were even, before gently touching her lips to his. At first it was akin to kissing a corpse as he simply allowed her to move for both of them, the situation making her increasingly agitated. After several exceptionally uncomfortable seconds, she found herself wrapped in two powerfully muscular arms as he reached around to seize her torso and pull her as close to her as he could manage, returning her embrace passionately. Her face throbbed with the blood from her embarrassment, but she was also gripped by an entirely different and not particularly unpleasant discomfort as their momentary tryst continued. No longer aware of the passage of time, she felt a pang of remorse when it finally came to an end and their lips parted, letting out a soft squeak of disappointment in spite of the fact that the skin of their arms and bodies remained fused.

"That okay?" she asked, looking at him through lust-hazed eyes, before he moved his head so that it was placed beside hers and purred his reply into her right ear.

"Indeed, but it is not enough."

**(Scene Missing)**

**Weskerian Says:** Hey folks, me again. Just wanted to let you all know the reason behind the missing scene here. I thought it might be deemed inappropriate to actually write out a graphically violent sex scene and put it up here Fan Fiction, so I decided to leave it out. If it ever does get written then it'll probably just be for Shak and I to read in private, since it's really a private matter regardless. Anyway, now that you know the gist of what is missing, I will leave you to patiently wait for the next chapter. Thanks for reading.


	9. Episode Four Point Two

**Episode Four Point Two: Just Shut Your Pretty Mouth**

It was with a powerful sense of self-satisfaction that Albert Wesker, Chief Executive Officer of Umbrella Incorporated, wealthy aristocrat and generally nasty piece of work, went about the rest of his day. After escorting his beloved to the chamber where she had spent the previous months in order to perform her ablutions and achieve a brief period of respite, he had done much the same, returning to his private chambers within his mansion's upper levels to obtain a suitable change of attire and wash away the gore that continued to stain his skin from their tryst. He had made assurances that the evening she spent within the white-walled cell located beneath his estate would be the last one, and that once he had made arrangements for her to assume control of his assets he would return and reintroduce her to the world that she had been denied for so many weeks. Had he any actual intention of keeping his word to her, then he would have begun to make those preparations immediately after sliding on his ebony suit jacket and placing his customary darkly-tinted sunglasses upon the bridge of his nose. Instead, with his face lifted by a cruel smirk fuelled by his own feeling of unadulterated victory, he returned to the catacomb of dungeons, striding purposefully towards a single room that was not the resting place of his object of fixation.

Expending no effort in deactivating the vault's intricately-designed security system, he opened the door and entered the chamber beyond, sealing the entrance behind him as he did so. This area was unlit save a single shaft of dirty yellow light at the far end that illuminated a single section of the rear wall. Pacing steadily, his hands clasped behind his back, he moved through the darkness in a manner that caused his footsteps to echo ominously from the stone walls as he approached. There was a rattle of chains as a silhouette picked out by the luminescence ahead struggled weakly against its shackles, its dread compelling it into movement as it heard him coming towards it. He moved to the periphery of the lit area, cruel eyes and coldly neutral features regarding the body of a young woman in her mid-twenties passively as she stood against the vertical surface behind her, held upright by the chains that were encircling her wrists. A mess of dark hair, damp with sweat and stained with blood, hung down, obscuring her face from his view, her eyes rooted upon the floor or clamped tightly shut so that she would not have to face the reality of her situation. Unfortunately, the blond was an impending doom that could not be avoided. Her clothing was stained and torn, and the bare flesh of her arms and throat was dirty with a film of grime that gave her pale skin an almost tanned gloss. He stepped forward into the corona of dim light, his captive visibly shrinking away from his presence but finding her escape blocked by the cold surface behind her. Soft, shallow sobs rose from the mop of unruly tresses that hid the bowed head before him.

"Hello Amanda," he greeted pleasantly, the young female cringing at his voice and the fact that it was addressing her. She had been in his captivity for a fortnight and she had seemed so dreadfully frail from the very beginning; individuals with such a lack of vitality were not his preferred company, and when compared with his coveted redhead she left so very much to be desired in spite of her debatable physical beauty. That Shakahnna had been with him for several months and had never once conceded to his wishes, only permitting him the slightest concession when she believed herself to be completely in control of the situation, in comparison to the mewling waif that he was currently addressing who had lost her will to fight almost immediately, made him wish to possess her all the more.

"I trust you are well, my dear," he continued, to which she did not answer, though she was slightly less shaken by his speech than she had been when he had first addressed her. She had been inconsolably self-piteous upon her arrival to his estate, unwilling to resist him but likewise averse to tell him what he wished to know. On the second day, Doctor Lovette had been kind enough to provide him with the compliance that he desired. That he had continued to torture her even after gaining the knowledge that he required might have been considered cruel by most, but her disloyalty as his former subordinate was not a matter that he wished to pass without some degree of retribution. Blistered skin marred areas of her arms and exposed abdomen where he had burned her, and thin tracks of blood ran across other areas of her flesh where he had left shallow incisions upon her person.

"Though I have enjoyed this brief reunion, I am afraid that it cannot be allowed to continue; this game has come to its conclusion and it is time that I demonstrated the truth of this matter to my beloved," he informed her, aware that the brunette knew of the individual to whom he was referring, "I have indulged her for long enough and it is time that she was made aware that it is not her place to decide the rules of our engagement."

She remained silent, continuing to sob quietly in spite of the fact that he had just alluded to her death and the emotional torture of her only remaining companion in the world. He tilted his head as though perplexed by this lack of forthcoming and reached forward with his right hand, moving it beneath the curtain of matted locks and gently taking hold of her lower jaw to lift her face. The hair fell aside as her head rose to bring her features up into the light, two tear-stained and watery eyes staring at him pleadingly, blood running from her nostrils and over the edge of her bottom lip. She was trembling against the flesh of his palm, the pale blue orbs filled with fear and horror and a longing to be as far away from here as possible, to never see his face again.

"Have you nothing to say, dear heart?" he queried, a smirk touching the corners of his mouth as he did so.

Even if she had wanted to say something, to cry out in her pain and sorrow, to curse him a thousand times over, to beg his forgiveness and sing out his praises in a desperate bid to secure her release, she was not capable of doing so with her slender, effeminate lips sewn shut. The steel thread criss-crossing over the thin line of her mouth held back the beautiful lilt of her voice, restraining the ordinarily dulcet tones that she used in speech and reducing her to mere sobs and hummed squeals of surprise and pain. Each puncture in the skin of her face had become bruised and swollen, blood oozing from them like pores seeping sweat, transforming her elegant and attractive countenance into a morbid mask of sallow, ashen horror. Her eyes shut and she let out a muted, shuddering moan. His lack of compassion was as profoundly monstrous as much as it was entirely in character.

"Then perhaps it is time that I reintroduced you to an old friend," he suggested, as a bead of sadness broke from the corner of her right eye and flowed across her filthy cheek to rest upon his finger as he continued to hold her head up, regarding her with the utmost cruelty.

-

Shakahnna awoke abruptly. Her eyes snapped open onto the white wall of the cell, still stained in places with bloody handprints and streaks of her own design. Around her she could feel the soft cotton of the bed sheets that came with the mattress and metal frame that had extended from the wall at Wesker's behest some weeks ago. As far as she was aware, it was the same chamber that she had fallen asleep in, but something felt undeniably wrong about it. She had woken so cleanly and quietly, it was almost as though her body had been alerted before her mind and had already prepared itself. There had been the sensation of movement, of someone within the chamber other than herself, but she couldn't decide whether she had imagined that or not. Nevertheless, she shuddered with a deep-rooted revulsion, as though someone had walked over her grave. Apart from that, however, and a slight dryness in her mouth, she was perfectly happy. Thoughts of the previous waking period came to her and she remembered the bargain she had struck with Wesker, the thought making her smile, before the reminiscence of what had succeeded it made her flush deeply. Once back in her room she had showered, singing loudly for the first time in a long while to express her content, before changing into her new clothing. The blond had really come through for her on that one; in a surprising turn he had furnished her with a brand new, tailored set of S.T.A.R.S fatigues, apparently no longer concerned with her allegiances as far as that group went. They were a better fit than her old uniform, expertly stitched by someone whom she hoped was not the executive himself, lest she lose all respect for him by learning that he was a seamstress. She had slept in the garments like they were pyjamas, though she had left her new boots, a pair of heavy, steel-reinforced, military-issue footwear, beside the bed.

She rocked up into a sitting position, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and winced as her back convulsed violently, reminding her of the torture she had endured. She could look back fondly on it and remember it as something she had quite enjoyed, but it didn't make the wounds hurt any less. Fortunately, the dressing that had been placed on the injuries was water tight and had stayed attached to her skin even after her shower. It hurt like a whore now she was aware of it, but it would heal, or at least scar, and she was capable of function while that occurred. Although, if her activities with her host the previous day had been anything to go by then she was more than capable of function even with her back bound against the ragged grooves lining its length. She smiled to herself, blushing again as she stooped to retrieve her new boots and pulled them on over her feet, lacing them up and stomping a couple of times to get a feel for them. They would likely be sore for a little while, but they were not that different from her old pair; they would wear in soon. With those secured she stood up and turned her attention to the sheets she had risen from, arranging them in as neat a manner as she could and scanning the chamber as was her custom for when she first awoke. There was no sign of her paramour, so she assumed that he was still busy making the arrangements to uphold his end of the agreement. She paused for a moment, however, when she became aware of the item sitting in the middle of the room beyond the foot of her bed.

Curiously, she moved from the side of her bunk and approached the detail of her surroundings that she could not remember being there before. She came to stand over it, staring down at it with a degree of bemusement. It appeared to be a cylindrical container, black and tied with a white ribbon that tied off on the top, keeping the lid firmly shut, a hat box if she were not mistaken. And attached to the box was a card that read, "A gift for how you enthral me". It was evidently for her, as that was exactly the kind of thing that her captor would have written upon a label that was intended for her to read, and it was in the flowing, measured italic that she imagined was the handwriting of an individual as pretentious as that man had the potential to be.

She tilted her head, biting her lower lip in trepidation, before kneeling down in front of the carton and taking the card from its upper surface, casually discarding it and pulling the ribbon loose. It came apart easily, falling down around the outside of the package and leaving the lid free for her to remove. She placed her hands to it and lifted it, that too coming away quickly and with little effort on her part, permitting her to set it aside and peruse the contents.

At first she was unsure as to what it was that she was looking at, seeing only a mess of what appeared to be dark hair that was stained and matted with dried blood much as her own had been on many occasions in the past. She frowned deeply, reaching in to take hold of the thing that was lurking at the bottom of the receptacle, taking hold of it around what appeared to be two curiously shaped handles, almost giving the impression that it were some kind of trophy. By this point she had realised that the object in her hands was a human's severed head and felt her mouth go dry at the realisation, but she was ill-prepared for the shock that registered when she had finally freed the decapitated cranium from the confines of its casket. Two glassy, staring orbs gazed at her in silent horror as her own face transmuted into a mask that reflected that very same emotion, Shakahnna Morgan coming face-to-face with Amanda Decker once again under the worst circumstances imaginable. Congealed blood dripped from the underside of the mutilated stump that was her neck and covered her mouth, which had been stitched shut, her lips having turned blue behind the thin metal thread, the kind that was used for surgical stitching. Beneath the fingertips of her left hand she could feel circular scars, familiar because she had a set just like them behind her own right ear, the lasting remnant of the torture given by Doctor Adrian Lovette. Breathing heavily and unable to speak, she set the grisly discovery back into its hiding place as gently as she could with hands that were trembling and unsteady. Then she pitched to her left and retched.

Her palms hit the floor with a slap, the impact stinging her skin, her body heaving forwards as she gagged involuntarily. Unfortunately, as she had eaten little recently, all that rose in her throat was acidic bile that ejected from her mouth in viscous, pellucid strings. She heaved in air, panting heavily as she reared back onto her knees and wiped her lips clean with the back of her hand, gasping out as her body was racked with loud, violent sobs. The realisation that her last remaining true friend had been killed struck her like a boot to the stomach, knocking the wind out of her and making her feel suddenly, desperately weak. She placed her trembling hands, still numb from the impact that had stung the flesh there, back to the floor and closed her eyes, breathing deeply and releasing each gasp as a shuddering tremor that shook her bulky frame in its entirety. Almost as though he had been waiting for the opportune moment to interject, she heard Wesker's voice from nearby.

"I was most surprised to learn that we possessed a mutual acquaintance in this young lady," he commented from his position, standing several yards away with his arms folded across his chest, the wall beside the large, metal bulkhead that sealed the entrance of her chamber just behind him. She hadn't heard him enter and she didn't much care how that could be possible.

"Why...?" she croaked out, shooting a glance at the box and its grisly contents before turning away in disgust and glaring up at him where he stood. There were a million questions that she wanted to ask, most beginning with that word, others beginning with "how", "when" and "where", wondering what circumstances had led them to this moment.

"I expect a greater degree of loyalty from my subordinates," he stated, almost casual in his assertion, "that she saw fit to betray my interests to S.T.A.R.S is an act that I am unwilling to forgive. She was quite eager to divulge information regarding your erstwhile colleagues also; it would appear that we have been similarly disappointed by her actions. Is this not justice?"

"She was trying to do the right thing," Shakahnna snapped, her throat burning and her eyes beginning to sting as angry tears welled up at their corners, "how can punishing someone for that be justice?"

He sneered a deeply superior sneer, as though his opinion of her could not be lower at that current moment. "I had believed that you above all else would understand why such a lack of devotion requires to be punished so severely," he told her, before lifting his right hand to adjust the integrity of the sunglasses upon the bridge of his nose, "perhaps I overestimated you."

She seethed silently, furious that he seemed to be taking this matter so entirely dispassionately while she was obviously suffering. Her hands balled into fists and her eyes narrowed, smooth pearls grinding together tightly as her jaw clenched, before she rose from her knees into a dead sprint, wanting to grab her tormentor and smash and rip and tear and kick and bite and punch him until he was shattered into tiny pieces, wanting to show him what her definition of justice really was. Unfortunately, before she was able to reach him he suddenly wasn't there anymore and she careened sideways into the wall, unable to stop herself due to her fervour. She slammed heavily into the surface and fell flat on her face, a warm, wet feeling appearing on her upper back where part of the dressing covering her wounds had come away from the sudden blow to her body. Struggling up to her feet once again, she looked around for him and instead located a hallway that had not been there previously, evidently having been opened by the blond, most likely as both an entrance when he had first appeared in the room and now an exit. It was not beyond his power to have sealed this door behind him if escape was truly his goal, but the redhead was not in any mood to ponder this fact, simply wanting to find him and make him pay.

She charged down the corridor, stopping herself with her hands when she was forced to make an abrupt left turn to follow the course of the white-walled passage, her body still tense with her rage, her every muscle still quivering with barely restrained fury. Ahead, the path came to an abrupt halt, a doorway leading into a second chamber on the right hand wall being the only option for her to take. Taking the entrance at a run, she was ill-prepared for the black-suited body that she slammed into immediately inside of it and spun wildly. The impact had felt awkward and the man she had been chasing did not seem as stoic as he usually did, and her confusion only grew when she slammed backwards into another, equally unstable form that seemed to give way behind her and leave her to slump backwards onto the floor, reaching the inevitable conclusion after already losing her footing from the moment she had first stumbled. Keeping her chin tucked in to her chest she avoided any potential concussion, though she was stunned to find herself looking up at a circle of ambiguous silhouettes hovering above her, only their basic shapes being illuminated by the lights overhead. Momentarily concerned that she had fallen into the middle of a group of soldiers, she set her hands on the floor on either side of her head and pushed off with her feet, curling her back and performing an almost perfect backward roll, coming to rest on one knee gently. When none of the figures around her made to attack her she paused, examining the closest one critically.

The first thing that she noticed about it was that it was not touching the ground, the boots enclosing its feet dangling several inches from the linoleum beneath it. Turning her eyes upwards, she found herself looking at what appeared to be a male clad in fatigues that bore a striking similarity to those that she was currently wearing. Its right arm was missing from the elbow down and its torso was riddled with puckered holes as though someone had impaled it repeatedly, though there was no sign of the implement that had caused those injuries. Its chest was split by what appeared to be a large, steel hook, the point of which was protruding through its shredded armour, while the other end emerging from its back was attached to a heavy chain that held it suspended from the ceiling. Two long-dead blue eyes stared down at her from a head that hung slack on a broken neck, the effect of which gave the impression that it was glaring down at her. She started backwards, suddenly aware of what it was that she was looking at. No longer blinded by her anger, she was now truly noticing her surroundings for the first time since entering the room. On top of that, she was now acknowledging what it was that Wesker had told her before she had chased him away. He had said that Amy had given him the information he wanted about S.T.A.R.S, and now the evidence for that was all around her.

The second cell was an expansive space, she could see that now, and as far as she could tell it had been devoted solely to the purpose of housing the corpses of the members of the group she had once belonged to. There were almost two hundred cadavers stored here, perhaps even more, giving the place a grisly, morbid atmosphere, trails and pools of blood staining the floor and walls all around her. Each of the bodies was hung aloft on one of the many snares that dangled from above, many wearing the familiar combat uniform, while others were clad in suits and secretarial garb, and yet more wore plain civilian attire. All of them had been heavily mutilated, all of them had obviously suffered before they had died and now they were congregated here, some of them little more than ragged pieces of meat and bone impaled on the points that held them aloft. On each corpse was stapled a plastic tag, some attached to fingers, others looped through zips on clothing but most having been punctured directly through skin somewhere on the body, transcribed with a name and rank that identified them as having once belonged to her former allies. Though her own cell had somewhat desensitised her to the scent of blood, the putrid smell here was overpowering, bringing back memories of the U.S.F members that Wesker had once left occupying her cell with her, and the bad old days when she had been out on the streets among the zombies, when that smell had once been normal for her. Had she not already done so, the nausea from that festering air alone would have made her vomit, and this was ignoring the very real fact that she was now almost certain that she was the only member of her team left. Her captor had once told her that the government officials who had supported their cause had been wiped out, and now the soldiers of that self-same cause were also dead. Most of the troops had probably died during her imprisonment, when he had been at his most eager to destroy them, but once he had located Amy it had led him to the Administrator's, the tacticians, the specialists and the devotees. Any who remained would be lost, alone, uncoordinated, simply waiting to be snuffed out once and for all. It was over.

She began to tremble, her body going numb once again, unable to comprehend the horror of what was being revealed to her. The only thought that occurred to her was to find the door and exit the chamber, to be as far away from this macabre revelation as possible. She wasn't even sure what to attempt after that; the gravity of her situation was finally beginning to settle in as she realised that not only was she imprisoned with no hope of escape, there would also be no one coming to find her. Anyone she might have considered an ally was dead, no one even knew that she was still alive or even existed on the outside. At the back of her mind was the frightening realisation that she had effectively been erased, just like so many of the people that currently surrounded her. She began to move, trying her best to circle around the hanging bodies and show them the respect that they deserved but quickly descending into a panic when she found herself unable to locate the entranceway she had used to enter. Swinging the dead, she ran frantically through the clinically-white dungeon, her desperation outweighing her grief as she fought past the rows and rows of slack figures. Expressionless faces with glazed eyes stared at her as she hurried past, the death masks of strangers seeming to melt away and change before her eyes into people she recognised, her parents, her sister, her fiancé, Captain Sean, Chris, Kane, Sage, Matt, Amy. They were all here, all dead, and it was clear that they blamed her. And with good reason; it was her fault after all.

She slammed face first into Wesker's chest, having missed it completely with her teary eyes screwed tightly shut to block out the accusing stares of her deceased loved ones. When she opened them again to look up at him, her sorrow was forgotten almost immediately, the anger she had felt reasserting itself now that its intended target had reappeared. Roaring with a force that made her throat sting, she lunged at him, smashing his shades with a punch that left shards of tinted glass embedded in her knuckles and in the skin around his monstrous right orb. She followed up, a second punch with her other hand crushing a rib or two in his chest and leaving purple mottling across her fingers where the impact bruised her instantly, before a third blow with her wounded fist did the same to the other side of his broad torso, the sliver of his broken lens slicing a gash along the back of her hand as it came loose. His hands came to encircle her wrists, bringing her arms up and away from him so that she could no longer deliver any more punches. She compensated by slamming her foot into his crotch as hard as she could, stamping on the toes of his own boot and delivering a kick to his kneecap that shattered the cartilage inside with a wet crunch. "You promised! You promised!" she screamed into his face.

"Enough!" he bellowed, wrenching her arms apart and thrusting his face forward toward hers in a manner that caused her to fall silent immediately in spite of herself. There had been an almost guttural tone to his usually composed voice that had put her in mind of a wild animal and the expression on his face was absolutely livid, although only for the briefest of moments. His usual neutrality asserted itself, reigning in the emotion that had manifested briefly in spite of it. "You know nothing about the world, my dear," he informed her, his fingers clamped so hard around her hands that they were leaving bruising upon the skin, though admittedly that might not have been the case had she not still been struggling even in her silence, "to use my resources in the pursuit of a just world would be but a waste. It is in man's own nature that no Utopia can ever last; they would reject it violently. We may only pursue power to meet our needs and leave others to their own ends. There can be no justice but that which we make for ourselves through our own actions."

"You promised," she said again, still squirming in his grip as she tried desperately to continue hammering her fists into his wide frame. She needed something to focus on in order to block out the considerable grief that she felt and this struggle, no matter how futile, at least meant that she needn't confront the truth of this situation for a little while.

"Their execution had already been carried out," he told her, as dispassionately as if he were simply informing her that it were raining outside, "it is beyond even my power to resurrect the dead, or at least, restore them to any semblance of what you could call life."

Shakahnna's blood ran cold at his second assertion, knowing full well what kind of "resurrection" the broad-shouldered man usually specialised in. He was correct, of course; the rebirth granted by the T-virus could hardly be called life in any real sense. "Does there be any of them left?" she queried, her face drawn and pale as she asked. There was little chance that the horrifically thorough Albert Wesker had missed any of her colleagues, but she had to at least hope he was only showing her this out of some twisted sense of duty to her, punishing the ones that he felt had wronged her and being entirely truthful about the plight of her former organisation. Perhaps he had stopped searching for them after she had made him promise and there remained a handful somewhere in the country. It was a vain hope, however, and one that he was quick to crush with a simple shake of his head.

"You must understand, my dear, that this situation has never been in your control, though you may take pleasure in believing otherwise," he said, pulling her close to him as she stood, unresisting, momentarily stunned by the sudden weight of everything she was being shown, "it is not beyond your power to salvage something from this debacle, however. Submit to me and I will ensure your safety; you may delight in punishing me for my transgressions against you as you see fit and never concern yourself with the world beyond these walls ever again."

Unable to prevent their proximity, she wanted so badly to tell him that there was nothing she wanted less than to be with him any longer, but the words caught in her throat, suppressed by the sobs that were rising from it with increasing frequency. She would rather have been anywhere else; she would rather have been dead. For the first time since arriving at the prison beneath his estate, suicide became a valid option. She would do anything to deny him, to prevent him from getting what he wanted after having done this. It had been the perfect solution when she had phrased it to him the day before; in hindsight she should have known that he would never permit her to set the terms for such a contract. He wanted things his way, always and without exception, even for her. And the worst part was that she was afraid he was now going to get it that way. What else could she really do but submit?

Her head fell back, two bright, emerald orbs transfixing him as he wrapped an arm around her upper back and stooped to press his lips to hers, blood running from the laceration beneath his eye and seeping into the kiss at the side of his mouth. She was unresponsive, having given in completely, the muscles of her face immobile but in a manner that was different to the enforced passivity he had used during their previous tryst. She was limp and contributed no movement of her own volition, a fact that made him break from her almost immediately, his brow furrowing in confusion. Her face was a mask of slack emptiness, her eyes possessing a glassy quality that gave the impression that she had vacated the space behind them. It was a similar expression to that which the treatment administered by Doctor Lovette had produced, and he realised that the rest of her form was in a comparable state of detachment from her wandering mind, her arms hanging at her sides while her legs were no longer supporting her weight, the entirety of her body supported by his arms around her. She had escaped him.

He growled in frustration, his muscles tensing sharply as he did so before they softened again, quick to reassert his control over his emotions lest he damage her in a fit of rage. He had cornered her, forced her to recognise the situation that she was in, given her the only choice that he wished her to opt for, and she had rejected him once again. It was doubtful that she could have entered an absent state of her own volition, but the timing of this sudden insensibility made him wonder if perhaps it had come about purely as a result of her spite for him. It was most vexing that this should happen when he had so perfectly orchestrated the final move to sap her of her remaining resistance.

He adjusted his grip upon her upper body and stooped to wrap his left arm under her knees, hefting her up and carrying her back to the cell which still composed her dwelling. For the first time that he could truly remember, Albert Wesker was unsure of what course of action to take.

-

The blond sociopath did little following the return of the young woman in his custody to her chambers. There was a brief flurry of activity as he returned the various fixtures of the redhead's room to their concealments within the walls of her cell, even going so far as to seal the door that led to the bathroom and remove the box containing the severed head of Miss Decker, so that it was the pristine and Spartan compartment he had once held her prisoner within, save for the bloody smears that she had used to decorate which he didn't care to expend any effort to remove. He lay her at the centre of the room and left her there, closing off the space that she occupied in the usual manner and moving swiftly to the observation room that he utilised to pass the time watching her. His musings on the matter of her catatonic episode prompted him to place a call to Doctor Lovette in order to question whether it had been some side effect of the treatment that she had undergone some months previously finally manifesting. Though the elderly gentleman could not say for certain, he agreed to take a hiatus from his work in order to attend the black-clad male's estate and examine her. With that done, he settled before the monitors that presented several angles across the white-walled prison and waited for several hours, pondering his next course of action. When she finally stirred, some considerable time after originally entering the comatose state, he returned there almost immediately and permitted himself access with a speed that belied his impatience. He found her standing where he had previously set her down with her back turned to him, seemingly ignoring the sound of his entrance.

"Shakahnna," he said flatly, her response to which was to turn her head to look at him over her shoulder. Her previous nature had reasserted itself and there was no sign of the absent state that had irked him so, though her face was pinched into a scowl of absolute hatred. Wordlessly, she turned away from him, refusing to answer.

"I would urge you not to test my patience, dear heart," he warned dangerously, registering some surprise when she then proceeded to stoop and deposit herself upon the floor, folding her legs beneath her and crossing her arms atop her chest, continuing to pay him an immense insult with her inattention. His jaw clenched tightly, before he resolved to solve this matter in as simple a manner as possible, simply walking around her so that he was directly in front of her. She glanced up at him, emerald eyes still narrowed, and then placed her hands upon the floor, rotating herself so that she was looking at the door where he had previously been standing. The muscles in his face tensed with his annoyance.

He uttered her name again as he reached down to take hold of her shoulder, only for her to swat his hand away violently. "Don't fucking touch me," she snarled, apparently unwilling to remain silent at this action. Though he had wanted a reaction from her, this was hardly much of a victory in that sense.

"You continue to resist me?" the towering male questioned, returning to his full height and continuing to glare down at her. She remained silent for a moment, the atmosphere heavy with their respective enmity for each other's behaviour.

"I'm gonna say this once," she informed him through the medium of addressing the room in general, her voice lacking the contempt that she had previously been exhibiting towards him and instead she delivered her statements with a blunt neutrality that would have been more at home coming from his own lips, "you can do what you want. Go ahead and make the world miserable, make everyone on it as sad and pathetic as you are, sit on a throne of shit and take comfort in the knowledge that even if everything is crap, you're still the king. Congratu-fucking-lations on that one. But as of this moment I'm not having anything more to do with you. You are no longer worth my effort. Keeping me here won't get you anything so you can either kill me or let me kill myself." She shot him a glance over her shoulder, her vibrant orbs still smouldering with her anger. "I figured releasing me wasn't an option, because heaven forbid you don't get everything completely your own way," she said, her tone now dripping with her revulsion, "so make your decision now and fuck off."

She returned to her previous silence, altering her position so that she was hugging her knees to her chest, and studied the details of the floor directly in front of her boots. Walls came up around her, shutting out the presence of her former paramour, ignoring him and anything he could do or say to her. She didn't care, didn't want anything else to do with him, just wanted him to go away. What he had done was inexcusable and completely unforgivable. She couldn't give him what he wanted knowing that. She had held out a slight hope that she could bring him round to her way of thinking, but he had proven himself completely irredeemable; when she actually thought about it, it occurred to her that it had always been that way. It seemed almost as though she had been deluding herself. All that remained was for her to deny him what he wanted until her dying breath. She yelped when a powerful hand seized a fistful of her flame-coloured hair, bringing her own fingers up to claw at the flesh that had seized the top of her head, before she was jerked upwards onto her feet, her legs kicking as she was actually lifted painfully into the air prior to being allowed to reassert her footing. It seemed that the final breath she had been musing upon was going to come sooner than she thought.

She struggled against his vice-like grip as it moved from her scalp to encompass her jaw, his left arm wrapping under her chin and holding her fast against his body behind her. Comparing his hold to that of a vice was admittedly cliché, but no less apt; it was a crushing, mechanical pressure without any remorse or weakness that held her so tightly that she cried out as she wondered if her skull was going to burst. "So be it," he growled, his right hand appearing in front of her clutching the handle of a long, steel blade, the sharpened edge of which was aimed directly at her face. Without the slightest moment of hesitation, he brought the knife towards her neck, apparently with the intent to slit her throat. Her arms rose to block the attack, the weapon biting into the flesh of her right wrist instead, severing tendons and arteries, blood bursting forth and streaming down her forearm and over her hand in a strong gush that was frighteningly quick. She screamed and clamped the wounded appendage to her stomach, the crimson liquid seeping into the simple fabric of the garment and quickly soaking her to the skin in her rapidly cooling life fluid.

Her free hand slammed into the elbow of the arm that was holding her head up so that her windpipe was exposed, trying desperately to coerce him into releasing her. He ignored her, though he kept to his earlier assertion that a soiled blade could not be allowed to touch the flesh of his beloved, even though she had effectively rejected him for the last time. He lifted the sharpened curve of the knife to his mouth and casually ran his tongue along the dirtied edge, the taste of her blood sweet and metallic within his mouth, before he brought the newly cleansed, razor sharp contour down to rest against her collarbone. "No!" she shrieked, her past fear that she would die without having made him pay reasserting itself. If he could kill her so easily then it was almost as though the struggle between them had been for nothing, like he would take nothing from what had happened, wouldn't even be affected by her death. She wanted to punish him; some punishment this was for him.

The motion across her throat was quick, the blade slicing cleanly into her neck in a spray of vermilion, before he released her immediately. Her scream became a gurgle as her legs buckled and she slammed to the floor beneath her, her trembling left hand clamping around her wounded neck as she convulsed uncontrollably against the linoleum, choking on her own blood as it seeped out of her and began to run away across the ground. Eyes wide and horrified, her legs twitched and jerked as she lay dying, the front of her top now completely stained red by the constant bleeding. Her strength was gradually ebbing away from her, and soon she could do nothing but lay still, her eyes gently fluttering closed as an encroaching darkness began to surround her.

"Consider this a parting of the ways, my love," Wesker said, removing a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his jacket and gently wiping the ensanguined tool with it before secreting both items in their place within the recesses of his suit, the sheet of cloth returning to its pouch, while the blade was slid back into the harness that rested just beneath his left arm. A choking sputter issued from her mouth as he circled her prone form and moved to the door. His decision made, there were now other matters that required his attention.


	10. Episode Four Point Three

**Episode Four Point Three: Just Shut Your Pretty Eyes**

"Oh my."

Due to his considerably lengthy association with one Albert Wesker, Doctor Adrian Lovette had grown used to all manner of shocking sights. Indeed, this was not the first time that he had ever seen a victim of the larger man's uncharacteristic loss of control. Regardless, he was still appalled by the atrocities that the supposed-gentleman perpetrated without the merest hint of remorse or regret. His outburst came as he surveyed the scene before him, stepping into the confines of the cell that held the current object of his colleague's obsession. Beyond the vaulted metal door lay a white chamber streaked with dried blood, some stains fresher than others, while on the floor was sprawled the body of a young woman curled into a vaguely foetal ball, a thick, red pool of rapidly cooling blood forming a tranquil puddle on the linoleum before her. Her hair was matted with the viscous life fluid and the shirt that she was wearing also appeared to be drenched quite heavily with the same liquid. Placing his artificial hand to his mouth in a gesture of succinct horror, he crossed himself with his other appendage; though not a religious man, the motion in and amongst itself was comforting in the way that it reminded him of his childhood and simpler times.

Approaching the prone female without hesitation, he stooped beside her and rolled her backwards gently, supporting her head so as not to do any further damage if she were still alive. He made to check her pulse at her throat, but paused when he realised that she no longer had one to speak of, seeing just a mess of torn flesh and an overwhelming quantity of blood. He went to her right wrist, and was dismayed to find the trend continued here, wasting no time in moving his fingers to clasp her left arm and thankfully finding that this particular appendage was still intact. The transferred heartbeat within her veins was irregular and weak, but there nonetheless, and a sigh of relief flooded forth from the older male's lips, sweat beading on his forehead as the agitation he had been feeling prior to confirming her life signs gave way. Unfortunately, she was still bleeding heavily, and though the wound in her neck appeared to his trained eyes to be superficial despite its depth, she would undoubtedly bleed to death in but a few minutes were she not treated immediately. Wesker was as qualified a physician as he was an interrogator, many of his more stubborn subjects remaining in his custody for months, their bodies sustained with the same talent that also mutilated them beyond recognition, and as such he kept a fully-equipped medical laboratory for situations just such as this, a place that the Doctor had knowledge of through his many visits to these chambers. Even in his youth he had never been a particularly fit man, however, and the flame-haired girl's considerable girth would have been too great for him to manoeuvre alone in the past, let alone the present.

He frowned, before resignedly ejecting a slender, needle from the tip of his augmented index digit. "Forgive my actions, young lady, but I am afraid I require your cooperation in this matter," he muttered, before inserting the sharp tip into the rear of her skull. Her eyes snapped open almost immediately and her left arm seized him roughly by the tie that was hanging around his neck, moments before she flung him head over heels and he landed in a crumpled him on the floor. It was beyond him to comprehend her speed as she snatched the gilt fountain pen from the pocket of his starched white lab coat and reared up over him, the item clutched in the fingers of her left hand and poised to stab him in an area of his body he suspected would be immensely painful, her right arm still held tightly to her abdomen. There was a hunted look in her eyes that was so profound it gave him a similar feeling of primal fear in the back of his own mind, the dried scarlet caking her upper body giving her a wretched appearance. She grunted hoarsely through a mouthful of blood, the fluid trickling from the corners of her lips as she seemed to hesitate.

"Please, calm yourself, my dear, it was not my intention to do you any harm," he pleaded, lifting his hands upwards, palms out towards her in a pacifying gesture. She glanced at the galvanised metal that covered his right hand, regarding it suspiciously, even more so upon discovering the needle that still tipped his primary finger on that appendage. She remained hesitant, though still disinclined to move from her position over him. "You are hurt," he informed her, his vision of her causing him to realise how obvious this statement was, "I merely wished you to awaken and accompany me to a room where I might be able to help you."

Whether because she believed him or because of the blood loss she had suffered, she slumped backwards onto her posterior, her arm falling limply at her side. She looked disoriented and dismayed, trauma both mental and physical rampaging through a mind that had been stressed and pushed to breaking point by the constant battles with her captor. There was a kinship between them, Adrian felt, a bond that could only come from having your life touched, altered, ruined by the pseudo-aristocratic sociopath. He clambered to his feet, slightly sore from his collision with the ground, and walked over to her in as reassuring a manner as possible. Once he was standing over her, he extended his human hand out to her in a gesture of sympathy and kindness. She looked up at him, blurry green eyes forcing themselves to focus upon his face, before she tucked the writing implement she had taken from him clumsily into the pocket of her trousers and reached up to take his hand lightly. He supported her as best he could as she clambered up, her blood smearing the length of his jacket and staining the front of the shirt that we was wearing underneath, though he could have cared less for the state of his dress when faced with such suffering. In the manner of a kindly parent leading a child indoors to put a temporary covering on a scraped knee, he led his latest patient to a section of wall that he casually moved aside with a touch that only the estate's owner could have been capable of duplicating.

He led her through the pristine corridors beneath the expansive mansion that the Chief Executive took as his dwelling, holding her hand in a grasp that may have been the most, perhaps the only, sincere expression of compassion that she had encountered during her captivity. Once within the sterile walls of the dungeon's infirmary, Adrian guided her into a surgical recliner, permitting her to rest and ignoring the unsightly metal cuffs that could be fastened about her arms, legs and head. As she was doing this voluntarily for her own sake, he doubted he would need to restrain her. She was feeble from blood loss, which prompted him to hang several bags of assorted fluids from stands located beside the chair and permit them to drain into her body through expertly placed IV tubes. Fortunately, Wesker maintained an impeccably neat collection of medical records pertaining to the young woman, which he had somehow managed to compile or obtain during her stay, and these helped the good Doctor immensely, permitting him to avoid any potentially fatal blunders. With that matter taken care of, he proceeded to use his knowledge and honed skills with the device that composed his right hand to repair the damaged tissue in her throat. The perforation of her windpipe had been slight, the merest fraction of an opening that had nonetheless caused her to bleed heavily into her trachea, something which he rectified immediately for her, rebuilding the cartilage around that wounded area. Once that had been completed he proceeded to fuse closed the bloody fissure using a technique reminiscent of the one used upon her face, though with a degree more sophistication than the crude procedure performed by the poorly-equipped surgeons of S.T.A.R.S. The effect was the same regardless, as she was left with a second track of hideously malformed scarring marring her rounded face and thick neck.

No longer in danger of bleeding to death or drowning in her own life fluid, Shakahnna reclined and permitted the elderly male to begin the more arduous task of painstakingly repairing the ruined tendons in her right wrist. She looked down at him as he worked, his attention focused entirely on the task at hand, frowning at the top of his head. There were so many questions in her head that were yet unanswered, and though she was still fatigued from the physical and emotional strain she had been placed under, she was eager to ask them. As soon as she felt able, she opened her mouth to speak, only to be choked by the feel of something rising in her throat. She lifted a bowl that was placed in her left hand and spat a mass of congealed blood out into it, turning it away as it drifted in a shallow pool of clouded saliva and bile lest it make her feel even more nauseous. When she looked back at Adrian she found that he was now looking up at her. "There is still a considerable amount of blood lining your throat from when you were lying prone," he told her, surveying her with softly sympathetic eyes, "most will wash away with your saliva as your ordinary functions resume, though some will clot and prove less amicable."

She nodded to show that she understood what he was telling her, before he turned his focus back to the intricate work he was performing on her lacerated appendage. The chemicals feeding into her body were numbing the majority of the pain that she was feeling, though she could feel the needles on his fingers probing the nerves and frayed muscles at the end of her forearm. "How did you get in?" she croaked eventually, her throat still sore from the trauma it had suffered. It was a matter of some importance to her, as she believed that only her host was capable of entering the chambers where she dwelt and that matter was currently serving as a barrier that prevented her from trusting him completely. How had he entered her cell if the other man had not let him in?

"While it is true that Albert is a considerate man in regards to the security of that which he deems precious, and that he employs an incredibly sophisticated system to that effect, his thoroughness in that respect is perhaps his greatest flaw," he recounted, prodding an area of her tissue that caused her index finger to twitch and made her wince in response, "simply put, young lady, though he may use an access code of several hundred digits and input that code with a speed the human eye cannot register which he changes on a daily basis with his own hand, that password will not remain secret for long when it is recorded by surveillance equipment which can be slowed to a fraction of its original pace. Though it took me a good hour after my arrival to do so, I was able to decipher his latest variation and allow myself access. I ... could hardly allow this to continue as an objective witness, and so I took it upon myself to intervene."

"I should be dead by now," she groaned hoarsely, setting the tray down and massaging her throat.

"It is possible that Albert was simply too preoccupied by your refusal to cooperate that he was unable to make a clean killing stroke, though admittedly that would be rather unlike him," the Doctor stated, sounding doubtful, "otherwise I would conjecture that perhaps he wished you die a lingering and painful death."

"Because that doesn't sound like him at all," she muttered sardonically, "but thank you. I would have be'd bleeding to death without you." He paused for a moment, and then shot her an apologetic glance.

"I confess that I am appalled at Albert's behaviour in this matter, but it is not for your sake that I am taking these actions, my dear," he stated, turning his eyes away from her as though he were feeling guilty for rescuing her when her well-being had not been his primary intention, "he is such a confused man, you see. His association with you is destructive; it brings him nothing but misery and he is losing his authority in the upper echelons of Umbrella. Though I am certain our benevolent chairperson, Lady Spencer, would have no harm come to him, it is only a matter of time before the Board of Directors lose all faith in him and seek to have him removed. I wanted to help him come to his senses."

There was a moment of silence between them as the young female stared at him wordlessly. She couldn't help but wonder if he wasn't as completely mental as his "friend"; at the very least he was benevolent, and she was glad for that fact. He had saved her, was giving her a second lease of life despite how much it would obviously engender the fury of the shared blight on their lives, and though she hated to take that effort and that risk for granted, she was going to use that second opportunity to have one last chance at doing what she had set out to do some months ago. She was going to put a stop to Albert Wesker once and for all.

"May I make a suggestion?" he queried, almost as though he were sensing what it was that she was intending, "I would recommend that you leave this place and run as far away as possible, perhaps leave the country when the opportunity presents itself, and make a life for yourself elsewhere."

"Can't do that," she told him, looking at him with an expression that conveyed the strength of her convictions, "he'd follow me anywhere I went, even if not to bring me back, then to kill me. Can't let him get away with what he's done either; can't run away from that. Be's justice."

The physician sighed despondently, tracing the line of a tendon that caused her whole hand to flex and tense. "I suppose it cannot be helped," he muttered, continuing the treatment as he did so, "then I feel it is only right to apologise for my own transgressions. My part in the suffering of yourself and your young friend is no less a sin that I must be absolved of."

The flame-haired Amazon glowered darkly at that comment, remembering the torture and the harrowing realisation that she had unwittingly betrayed her family that had followed it, as well as the marks upon the severed skull of Amy that had evidently been the reason why she had given away the locations of the remaining S.T.A.R.S members. For a frightening moment, she wasn't even sure if she could forgive him. "Why would you let yourself be used like that?" she asked, reasoning that she should at least hear the reasons behind his actions before she decided to condemn him.

"It is such a sad state of affairs, but there have been so many victims of Umbrella's various tragedies," he told her, though she was certain she already knew that much, "those who know too much are imprisoned, lest they reveal the corporation's true purpose to the public at large. They are held for years in horrific conditions, awaiting execution or worse. When Albert granted me control of a facility to test the capacity of my apparatus, I took to requesting those individuals who had been incarcerated to be transferred to my institute rather than allow them to be used as test subjects for the various malformations of the T-virus, or simply killed and buried. They have relative freedom of movement and kind treatment that they would not receive under the care of any of the organisation's other researchers. For those who are traumatised too profoundly, I allow them simply to forget and live in blissful ignorance. When I consider the hundreds in my charge, the occasional concession for him is a small forfeiture of my integrity so that others might live in better circumstances, though admittedly it abhors me to my core to perform such acts. Understand that if he were to lose interest in the results of my experiments, however, then he would likely kill me, have my laboratories decommissioned and their staff and patients liquidated. I must obey him for the sake of those who depend upon me."

There was something sad about his tone that made her believe that he regretted the whole situation. It was a precarious position to be in, garnering Wesker's favour in return for the continued safety of those individuals whom he cared for and kept out of the clutches of Umbrella's more unscrupulous employees, and at the same time compromising his own morals by subjecting others to horrific fates at the behest of his corrupt benefactor. Causing harm to prevent harm, it was a depressingly ironic juxtaposition. "I understand," she informed him, her eyes softening slightly as she looked down on a man who only seemed to want the best for everyone, "but I can only forgive you for what you did to me."

"I appreciate that much," he said, reaching to a nearby tray in order to retrieve what seemed to be a peculiarly-shaped piece of synthetic material and pressing it into the hole in her wrist. It fused almost immediately over the wound, almost like replacement flesh for the missing part of her forearm. It was a generic peach that did not match her own skin tone, reminding her of how pale she had become in the months that she had been hidden from the sun. The effect was surprisingly grotesque as he pressed the patch into place with his needled fingers, giving the impression that he were constructing a human rag doll. "I am glad that you recognise my sincerity when I apologise for my misdeeds, and I readily acknowledge that I may only truly be forgiven once I have passed away," he told her, smoothing the artificial flesh into place, "we all have sins, and only by the grace of others may we achieve forgiveness. I would ask that you allow Albert your forgiveness, as he has greater need of it than I. Kindly flex your fingers, please."

She frowned at him as he spoke, following his instruction to move her digits, before he gave her several more tests in order to determine how well he had performed her surgery. Though it was a painful process, he assured her that the ache that ran along her forearm whenever she moved her hand would subside in time. Thanks to the procedure he had performed she had regained full control of her leading hand and in gratitude she made an effort not to make any mention of what she could now do with that hand; in fairness, she should probably wait until after she had killed Wesker to have a wank of victory. "I don't think I can forgive him," she said flatly, clenching a fist, "maybe once he's dead; maybe once he can't hurt anyone ever again. Only then could I be considering it."

"I consider him a friend," the physician said solemnly, maintaining a sense of composure though he was evidently fraught with agitation, "but I suspect you may be right. He will never stop of his own accord; someone should prevent him from doing harm, however one might achieve that goal. Even if it means his death."

-

"This path will lead us to the landing pad, a good few hundred metres from the building, while that staircase leads up into the bowels of the mansion," Adrian was explaining as they made their way out of the vaulted chambers that had been her home for so long she almost couldn't remember what it was like to be outside, her short foray into her host's ornamental gardens not withstanding, "I would urge you to come with me, husband your resources carefully, consolidate your position, find a place where no innocent bystanders will be harmed if you wish to force Albert into a final confrontation."

"Does there be any people in the mansion?" Shakahnna asked, eyeing the staircase suspiciously. Once her treatment had been completed and she had been detached from the drips feeding into her system, the benevolent physician had allowed her access to the shower she had used in the months previous so that she could be cleansed of the blood covering her body. Her tailored S.T.A.R.S fatigues had been ruined, now caked in the crimson fluid where it had quickly congealed, and so she had traded that attire for a set of white surgical scrubs in her size. Though they did not possess the Umbrella logo, they were also not particularly to her tastes. Beggars could not be choosers, Adrian had stated wisely, and so she accepted those new garments as her best option, though she kept her stained paramilitary uniform in a bundle under her arm. Her throat was still raw, though she had ingested water from the tap and felt at least somewhat less like a walking corpse. She still had her boots at least.

"Oh no, Albert had left for some unknown business before I arrived, and his janitorial staff are stationed in a separate building; as he has no need for security staff, the main structure should be quite devoid of life," he recounted, before glancing at her with a look of curiosity on his face, "why do you ask?"

"Seems like as good a place as any," she said, a broad, malicious grin splitting her features that took the surgeon aback. She wasn't sure whether it was the connotations of her words or the facial expression combined with her grotesque facial injuries that had alarmed him, but she suspected it was probably a combination of both.

"That would be most ill-advised," he told her, to which she waved a hand dismissively.

"You should be going and getting out of here, that way," she suggested, though the underlying tone of it was that of a command, gesturing in the direction of the passage that would lead him away from the mansion that they were currently situated under. He hesitated, but seeing the resolve in her eyes, and knowing there was nothing more that he could do in this situation, he conceded quickly.

"I wish you luck, young lady," he stated sincerely, before turning from her and beginning the long walk that would take him to the helicopter landing pad some several hundred metres from his current position. The redhead watched him go, non-verbally wishing him the same, as the only true ally she had left walked away. She would rather he go than risk his life in what was to follow.

In truth, Shak didn't really know what she expected to do to fight Wesker. From what she had experienced of him, his capacity for regeneration as well as his fighting prowess was immense. He was superhumanly strong, tough, fast, intelligent and could even grow new limbs as they were needed. About the only thing that he couldn't do was make her burst into flames by looking at her, though there had been occasions where he had worn an expression that made her think that he wished he could. She was unsure how he would react to having his head cut off, though she hoped that would be enough to kill him once and for all. If not she supposed only the kind of damage that could be wrought by a nuclear missile would be sufficient. She wasn't sure what it was that had turned the blond into the monstrosity he was today, but she definitely wanted some for her. Her first instinct was to find a weapon of some kind to equip herself with. Though she was hardly defenceless unarmed, her last few attempts to fight her darkly paramour with her hands and feet alone had not been good for her. The only time she had truly incapacitated him had been during their first meeting, when she had had access to her favoured cat's claws, and now that task would prove even harder due to the fact that she was injured and fatigued from blood loss, even if her system was swimming with painkillers and artificial adrenaline.

She opened several of the doors that lined the basement corridor finding various rooms, the purpose of many of them not being readily apparent, until she forced one particular entranceway and found herself standing inside what appeared to be a wine store. The executive was unlikely to be a heavy drinker due to his staunch, almost puritan, beliefs regarding personal health, which he had relayed at some length to her on one particular occasion, but it was all the more doubtful that he would allow a guest of his to go unfulfilled should they desire a wine of a particular vintage or other alcoholic beverage. It was an expansive chamber, lined with bottles on all sides and aisles of casks arranged in rows along its length. She removed one bottle from a low shelf, looking at a particularly potent vodka that had evidently been imported from one of the countries that specialised in it; the language on the label seemed more like symbols than letters. It occurred to her that the liquid inside would most likely render her tipsy enough to forget that her throat had been slit and leave her ready to take on the world, providing she drank enough of it, although she reminded herself that her body's chemistry was fairly chaotic with various drugs at current, and probably wouldn't take too kindly to another. Instead she set the bottle down and removed several others from their place, ensuring that they were all exceptionally high proof from the numbers printed upon the sides. Then with a hint of remorse, she began to tear thick strips from the ruined bundle of clothing she was carrying beneath her arm.

After several short moments of innovation, Shakahnna had successfully created almost a dozen firebombs, ready to be ignited and used. The lighter that Wesker had given her some time ago was still in the trouser pocket of her S.T.A.R.S uniform along with the pen that she had taken from Adrian, the latter of which she tucked into the pocket of her scrubs for later use. She gathered up an armful of the filled bottles, as many as she could comfortably carry, and moved back out into the corridor, setting them down on the hard, white tile outside. She selected one at random, hefted it and used the lighter to ignite the soaked and bloodied rag that she had stuffed into its neck. It combusted immediately, the flame spreading quickly, so she turned on her heel and hurled the impromptu explosive into the room where she had found it, before stepping smartly backwards and slamming the door behind her. Collecting the rest of the containers into her arms again, she hurried back down the corridor towards the staircase that led upwards away from her cell. It was such a small measure of retribution to take against a man who had stolen so much from her, but burning down his house would at least inconvenience him to a degree. She felt that it was the least she owed him and the very least he deserved.

She moved up into the more elegant décor of the mansion above, moving along the carpeted halls and through the extravagantly decorated rooms, sowing the seeds of destruction as she went. At intervals she would light one of the makeshift weapons and drop it behind her, the fire generally catching quickly and filling the air with thick black smoke. Her path had led her through the majority of the wing beneath which she had been imprisoned, and it was likely that the damage would be extensive, particularly considering that she doubted there would be any emergency response. Once she had expended all but one of the items she entered a new chamber that appeared to be a study. This room was functionally-equipped and appeared to be used entirely for the purposes of correspondence and not much else, her assumption supported by the large mahogany desk and rows of filing cabinets against the rear wall. Opposite the entrance was what she had been looking for, a group of large windows that extended from floor to ceiling that emerged onto a grey stone terrace and overlooked the gardens in all their expansive majesty. It was bright and sunny outside, the weather picture perfect just as it had been on that day when she had been allowed a foray through the labyrinth elsewhere on the grounds. She grinned broadly and bounded forward, planning on using the windows as her point of exit. Unfortunately, she was interrupted by the sound of boots slamming heavily on the carpet outside of the room.

It wasn't Wesker, she was certain of that even before the individual came into view; had he wished to apprehend her then he would not have done so in the middle of the burning building, nor would he have approached her in a manner that she could hear. She rounded on the open door behind her and came face to face with the vacant gasmask face of a member of the U.S.F. Adrian had told her that there would be no security and though she reasoned that he could have been lying, she instead suspected that he just hadn't known. She had a momentary pang of worry that innocent people might be burned alive in the blaze she had started, before a rush of memories came to remind her of what it was that had led her to this point in the first place. Of course innocent people wouldn't die; anyone at this house would be Umbrella scum. The newcomer lunged for her with a speed that was markedly slower than that of her captor, but which was still immensely fast for someone of his considerable build. Her left hand flicked the wheel of her lighter and the rag protruding from the bottle in her opposing appendage burst into flames, though before she could even move to throw it at the approaching male he was upon her and had swatted the bomb from her grip with a stinging backhand strike to her damaged wrist. The bottle tumbled out of her hand and shattered on the desk, exploding in a cascade of rapidly spreading fire, blooming across the right hand side of the room and up the wall like a rare and aggressive growth of flower.

She grunted at the impact before she was struck again, this time in the mouth with a force that shook her skull and caused her to stumble backwards, before she corrected herself and punched him back, a straight right fist that connected solidly with the space where his nose should have been. There was a satisfying crack as she cracked the plastic filter over the lower part of his face and possibly the ridge of cartilage at the centre of his features also. She was shocked when that injury did not deter him, and was forced to defend quickly as he swung a further punch at her head, before he spun on the spot and slammed his left elbow into her own left ear. Rocked to the side, she used the blow to her advantage and went with the impact, dipping to her right and sweeping her leg around under his, connecting stiffly with the backs of his knees and knocking him onto his back with a dull thud. Asserting herself on top of him, she went to punch him again, only for his hands to encircle her wrists and hold her up away from him. Their legs fumbled against one another as they fought to control the situation, the Special Forces member acquiring the upper hand and wedging his feet against the redhead's stomach. There was a moment of pressure on her abdomen and then the young woman flew backwards with a speed that was almost too quick for her to register until the moment she smashed back-first through the windows behind her and collapsed on the terrace outside. Shards of glass sliced into her back as she landed on them, her contact with them only lasting a moment as she flipped up onto her feet immediately, surprised to find the male bearing down on her yet again. They engaged, fingers clasping around each other as their palms pressed together, Shakahnna surprised to find that her strength was equalled, the strain of their muscles causing her biceps to bulge and flex beneath the short sleeves of her scrubs. This whole situation was feeling too familiar.

She slammed her right foot into his crotch, sacrificing sure footing for a move that should have incapacitated him completely. Instead, he forced her backwards off-balance and toppled her over the concrete rail of the patio they had been fighting on, where she landed roughly on the grass beneath and rolled down a bank into a flower bed. Almost as though her attack had passed right through him, he stood atop the boundary and then hopped down into the garden to join her. She rolled up to one knee on a grassy bank and shot her adversary an appraising look. His clothing was no different from that of an ordinary U.S.F member and they had never proven that difficult to defeat. Except for that one woman, on the same night she had met Wesker for the first time.

The label on the front of his tactical vest read, simply: "Black".

"Intruder located," the soldier announced from behind his mask, "neutralising."

"I remember that voice and that stance," she said conversationally, holding her side where she had landed awkwardly, "didn't you used to be female?"

He surged forward yet again, but she was prepared, dodging the boot he thrust into the place where her head had been moments before and rising behind him to bring her arms around his bullish neck with an intent to break it quickly and easily so that she would not be drawn into a lengthy and costly fight like the one against her other almost zombified opponent had almost been. Unsurprisingly, he resisted, lifting his shoulders to protect the sides of his throat, before gripping fistfuls of her hair with his hands and wrenching her over his head. Though she was numb to her pain, she seemed incapable of exerting the force she needed to kill him with that manoeuvre and she was thrown through the air, landing heavily on her back. As soon as she struck, she kicked up and slammed the point of her right boot into his head with such power that it dented his skull, knocking him backwards into the dirt. They scrambled up at the exact same moment, lunging for one another in tandem and each delivering a solid knee to the torso of the other which drove the wind out of both of them. Their hands locked around the shoulders of their enemy, they pushed back and forth, trampling flowers and kicking up sprays of well-maintained soil as they did so. The former S.T.A.R.S member shoved forwards as hard as she could, and then pulled back, moving with the response of the man so that she rolled backwards onto her reverse, burying her foot into his stomach and flipped him over her head so that he slammed onto the ground.

Rolling through, she finished the motion straddling his chest and struck him hard in the face, smashing both of his goggles at the same time. His answer to this was to lift his arms under her, unbalancing her from her perch. To lift her with his upper limbs pinned to the ground would have required exertion that only someone with the lack of pain responses her previous opponent had possessed could manage, and she was momentarily awed by this display of strength moments before he lifted his feet under her again and kicked her off him, sending her slamming into the wall of a small outbuilding that she had not noticed previously, almost rendering her unconscious. She slumped onto her rear, sitting against the wall with her head swimming as he stood up over her. His mask was slick with blood from the wound in his head, but he seemed entirely unfazed, reaching to his right side to remove the sidearm holstered on his belt with an obvious intention to finish her off. Before he could withdraw it, however, there was an ear-shattering explosion from somewhere beneath the mansion that sent a large amount of the wing they had previously been occupying up into the air amid a huge ball of fire and thick, black smoke. The large number of casks and bottles in the basement store room had evidently reached the point where they were no longer willing to tolerate the heat of their surroundings. The blast was such that Shakahnna could feel the hot, haze-filled breeze hard on her face and pieces of broken stone began to ping around her. It even distracted the drone Umbrella operative for a moment as his addled mind struggled to make sense of what sounded like a demolition charge going off.

It was all the other U.S.F soldier needed to finish the battle once and for all. The fallen gamine was unsure as to who the second, black-clad male was, or where he had come from, but his appearance cleared the fog from her head immediately. Whoever he was, he was fucking good, deflecting the other man's blows as though they were flying in slow motion, turning aside a right hook with practiced grace before hammering his elbow into the bloodied trooper's sternum with a force that cracked his ribs so audibly even the onlooker could hear it. He hooked his foot into the crook of the first individual's knee and pushed down, dislocating the leg at its midpoint, before clasping one bulky, powerful arm around his throat. There was a moment of solemn silence broken only by the sound of raining debris and crackling flames, and then there was a loud, violent crunch as the interloper snapped the outmatched soldier's neck. His head lolled sickly, the stump of his spine almost splitting through the skin as he flopped forward onto the ground, most certainly dead.

The redhead shrank back as the assailant came towards her and suddenly thrust his right hand, palm up and open, into her face.

"Come on," he snapped, the authoritative growl of his voice making her momentarily consider it before she looked at him with a sardonic sneer.

"No way, you're Umbrella scum," she snorted dismissively.

"I am under orders from the Board of Directors to find you," he announced, the words taking her aback even as he said them, "Albert Wesker is to be eliminated, and you are the only person they consider capable of the task."

"What?!" she spluttered, "how the fuck do they know about me? Why do they want Wesker dead? I mean, don't get me wrong, I totally agree, but isn't he one of theirs? And who the fuck are you anyway?"

"Now is not the time," he informed her, that response proving considerably underwhelming, "but if you want to stand any chance of accomplishing our mutual goal then you must come with me, now. And if you insist on my identification then most refer to me as Hunk."

-

The raging inferno had abated, leaving only the smouldering remains of what had once been a grand and impressive building, a blackened, almost skeletal shell of its former glory. Embers still crackled and loosed clouds of thick smoke into the air, but the majority of the damage had already been done. The entirety of the West wing had been demolished by the explosion, and with it a large amount of the basement area, a large crater marking the area where the wine store had detonated crudely. From his position atop the helicopter landing pad some several hundred metres away from the structure, Doctor Lovette had seen the blaze take hold of and destroy the mansion utterly, even feeling the force of the submerged eruption where he stood. Now he could see small figures running back and forth across the grounds of the estate trying to prevent the spread of the fire to the gardens and the dwelling of the housekeepers. Had he known that the young woman would turn out to be such a vandal then perhaps he might have rethought permitting her to roam the house unsupervised.

"Albert will not be pleased," he muttered to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose with his artificial fingers.

"An astute estimation, Doctor," a brisk and perfectly-enunciated voice responded from somewhere directly behind him. The dismayed physician wheeled around with surprise to find himself confronting the towering form of the gentleman in question. He gaped, almost as though realising for the first time exactly how imposing the other man truly was.

"Ah, Albert..." the older of the two individuals stammered, casting around for something suitable to say, "when did you get back?"

Though he rarely ever looked pleased, in this situation the executive seemed even less pleased than usual. His jaw was tense and his teeth were clenched behind his lips, which were pursed tightly into a frown of the utmost aggravation. "I requested that my pilot set my transport down when I became aware of the emissions issuing from the direction of my estate, as I could arrive sooner on foot," he recounted, almost conversationally, before his tone changed almost imperceptibly to include what sounded almost like amusement, "might I enquire as to why you saw fit to incinerate my residence?"

Adrian snorted in spite of himself. "Oh, don't be foolish," he said, before remembering that he was supposed to be watching his tongue, "I would imagine that it was one of the S.T.A.R.S members you have been keeping in the basement, perhaps the girl you have been so fixated with recently."

Wesker studied the elderly male before him critically, an act that caused said-individual to become increasingly self-conscious. It seemed to him as though the black-clad sadist was almost capable of reading his mind, and even the thought of that made him break out into a cold sweat. When the blond opened his mouth to speak it gave him ever greater cause for concern. "Then Shakahnna is alive," he mused aloud, removing a metal cylinder from within his jacket pocket, the size and shape of a cigar case, and handing it dismissively to the greying man, "it would seem that I have no further use for this."

Adrian studied the item that he had been handed curiously, turning it in his hands until he came to locate a serial number printed directly onto the steel. Alongside a string of numbers were the letters "TVX". He frowned and looked up at his colleague with an expression of confusion. "Is this...?" he began.

"A sample of the Tyrant-Veronica virus," he revealed offhandedly, "an augmented prototype."

The neural surgeon, clad still in a lab coat and other clothing stiff with the blood of Wesker's coveted redhead, though he seemed to have forgotten this fact and also the fact that his malicious companion knew the scent of his beloved's life fluid better than any other, continued to be puzzled for a moment, before his eyes widened sharply in horror. "You were going to use this on her weren't you, Albert?" he exclaimed, taking a step back from the other man as a wave of revulsion swept through him, "you wanted her to die; you wanted to reanimate her as some kind of monster. You'd lose her will but that didn't matter to you, did it? You were tired of clashing with her personality; you simply wanted her as some kind of object. You were actually willing to sacrifice her humanity for a cheap thrill."

"Perhaps you might enlighten me as to whose blood is currently staining your attire, Doctor," the pseudo-aristocrat snapped, taking an angered step forwards and driving the righteous indignation out of the older male with the revelation that he had been caught red-handed, so to speak, "once we have established the truth of that matter then we might pursue other topics of conversation, such as how this blood came into contact with you, how my prisoner managed to survive an otherwise fatal wound and how she was capable of exiting her otherwise secure holding facility in order to wreak this havoc upon my dwelling? I am certain I would find your explanations most satisfactory; or at least I would hope, for your sake, that I do."

"Ah, well, I may have ... let her out," Adrian confessed, cowed into timidity in a matter of seconds in the face of the towering monstrosity that was Umbrella's Chief Executive. He lifted his hands in a pacifying gesture, palms out and open, as he observed a flash of red behind the darkened lenses of the other man's sunglasses. And then something slammed solidly into his mouth. He staggered back, almost in slow motion, and then toppled onto the tarmac in a cataclysmically laboured descent, which made the impact with the ground that much more painful. There was blood on his tongue and a tooth had worked loose from the front of his mouth, something that he promptly spat out onto the floor beside him. "Good God," he moaned, moving his left hand to his lips to wipe away the crimson fluid that was drooling in viscous strings from them. His lower face was numb and beginning to ache with swelling already. "Please Albert, I did this to help you," he pleaded, through a mouthful of scarlet copper, "I-I didn't want to watch you drive yourself to distraction anymore; I didn't want to see you kill this girl with your unhealthy fixation. Releasing her was the only way I could think of to make this whole situation right."

"You have interfered in my affairs yet again, Doctor; perhaps I was in error when I permitted you to live after your last transgression," the ebony-clad male said, looming over the sprawled physician as he nursed his injury, his voice still level and his expression still one of passive neutrality as he eyed the artificial appendage attached to the severed stump of that individual's wrist, "my previous admonition seems to have taught you nothing; I will not be so tolerant in this instance. There will be a reckoning between us, old friend; I assure you of this."

"It isn't your place to judge," Adrian spat, forcing his words out between ensanguined coughs as the liquid from the laceration in the lining of his mouth continued to bleed profusely, "you have no morals, no righteousness, no belief in justice; you cannot judge the guilt of others as though you were some higher power."

"I have no equal and answer to no one," Wesker stated flatly, as blunt as though there were no question that in the absence of God his authority was absolute, "however, your judgement will be postponed. I have matters that require my immediate attention."

He turned his back on the prone male, striding purposefully across the landing pad as though the man who had earned a considerable portion of his ire, enough to be physically struck for his actions, was no longer important enough to regard. That same person struggled up into a sitting position, still holding his throbbing lower jaw, and watched as the executive reached the precipice of the raised platform. "Albert!" the grey-haired gentleman called after him, "Albert, where on Earth are you going?"

Two shaded, inhuman orbs turned to face him once again, moments before a single word rolled from his tongue in a measured purr.

"Hunting," he responded, and leapt from his perch to the ground below.


	11. Episode Five Point One

**Episode Five Point One: I'll Be Seeing You Again**

"Hurry," Hunk snapped, as the pair continued their forced march away from Wesker's estate. In spite of his military discipline, he was understandably agitated by the knowledge that the inhuman executive would most likely be on their tail before long. His pace was brisk and easily outstripped that of the young woman behind him, who was having to move at a semi-jog just to be behind.

"Okay, okay, I've only got short legs," Shakahnna huffed from several yards behind as she followed his lead. She honestly wasn't sure where it was that she was being led, but they had crossed out of the verdant grounds that formed the expanse of land owned by her former captor and had since passed out into a dry and barren wasteland. After almost an hour of walking they had arrived at the outskirts of a small settlement several miles from the mansion where she had once been detained, the town's outer edge formed from a long, wide interstate section that lacked traffic of any kind. Several rusted automobiles stood abandoned on the highway, though some still had occupants, long dead corpses baked by the sun into screaming, mummified husks. There was a motel on the other side of the road, and a group of buildings boasting signs that had once been eye-catching and garish lined a high, stone shelf to the left, showing that the settlement was more of a service stop than an actual habitat, built into the side of a small, rocky mound that peaked several hundred metres away. When the tragedies of the past six years had first visited this place it had been early in that period, and now that destruction was gathering dust and fading away even while other parts of the country were still choked with the undead. "What is this place?" she queried, mopping sweat from her brow prompted by the afternoon sun that was beginning its descent on the western horizon.

"Just a town," the black-clad soldier responded, apparently unfazed by the heat even in his armour and mask, "one of the first to be destroyed and the closest to Wesker's residence."

"So why here?" she asked, fairly certain that he had led her to this place for a reason. When he did not reply she cast around at the disused location trying to determine the answers herself. Now that they had put distance between themselves and the sociopath, she wanted answers to the questions that she had asked him earlier, and she could see no reason why he would not answer her now. "Why come and get me?" she questioned, thankful that he seemed to be slowing down at least a little now, "I mean, you can handle yourself and you're not injured like me; why is it up to me to fight Wesker?"

He was silent for a moment longer as they crossed the wide street, passing a sand-swathed land rover whose driver was sitting sideways in the passenger seat, apparently having tried desperately to escape from something that had entered his door and failed miserably. There was no sign of that something now. It reminded the redhead of the days when she herself had walked through dozens of towns and cities like this, including the place where her fiancé had once lived. "He'd kill me without hesitation," his muffled voice explained bluntly, "you have an advantage that I don't."

"Huh?" the young woman asked, tilting her head in apparent incomprehension.

He turned to regard her with the blank, round eyes of his gasmask, pausing in the middle of the road momentarily. "He wants you."

"Erm, he slit my throat," she pointed out, running her right finger across the wound in her neck to illustrate her point. The motion also drew attention to the mismatched piece of flesh fixed into the hole in her wrist that was further evidence of the matter she was attempting to bring to her attention. The masked face continued to stare at her for a moment, and then he spoke again.

"You rejected him?" the broad-shouldered male asked flatly, to which she flushed slightly when she realised that he had a point.

"Well, yeah, but..." she began awkwardly, before he interrupted.

"Then he did it because he would rather have you dead than not be with him," her companion stated, his tone still as caustic as ever, "it's what I would have done. But since you survived I imagine he'll be eager to convince you to change your mind; it gives you a bargaining chip to use against him. If he thinks that there's even the slightest chance you'll be willing to come back with him then he won't be trying to kill you. And he won't want you to kill yourself either."

This time it was her turn to be silent, prompting him to turn back to his intended path. He was leading her into the front yard of the motel, paying no heed to that structure's car park with its three permanent occupants and the metal staircase that led up the steep incline to the retailers she had noticed earlier. Some of the doors to the rooms stood open, and a desiccated cadaver lay prone on its belly where it had been dragged to the ground by marauding undead, a fallen towel at its feet providing evidence that it had been attempting to leave in a hurry. What flesh remained had turned hard and black in the heat, while the bones of the ribcage and thighs had been bleached white. Even the flies no longer wished to eat what remained. "I still want to know how the Board of Directors found out about me," she called after him, resuming her jog.

There was a moment as he seemed to contemplate the question, choosing his wording carefully. "They had a source," he replied eventually. She took a few seconds for herself in order to think through the implications of his answer, aware that very few people were aware that Wesker was keeping her imprisoned, until she came to the only name that really made any sense.

"Adrian?" she asked, her brow furrowing as she was unable to comprehend why the gentile physician would have so readily betrayed someone whom he claimed to be a friend of to individuals whom he obviously did not have much love for. Almost as though to confirm her assumptions, however, Hunk grunted his ascent.

"You catch on fast," he told her, as she quickened her pace to walk next to him, lest she miss anything that he was saying, "Doctor Lovette approached the Board some time ago talking about how Wesker was becoming fixated on something unhealthy. He wanted their help in staging an intervention, but they weren't interested in returning him to his old self. Over time he had become detached and brisk, delegating more and more responsibility to the Chairwoman, Lady Spencer, whom they could control with greater ease than him, and of course they preferred that. So they convinced Lovette to keep them appraised and when things got really unhealthy, when he called them talking about how Wesker had called him out all of a sudden, when they were certain that he wouldn't be able to help but interfere, they sent me to ensure that their interests were met."

"Okay, so that explains how they knew about Wesker going mental," she commented as he finished, "but it doesn't explain how they knew about me."

"Lovette thought originally that Wesker was just hunting down the S.T.A.R.S," the soldier responded, "its not the first time he's done that; later on though, when he confided in the Doctor that it was one woman in particular, he told the Board all about it. With a little research it wasn't hard to find out whom it was that the C.E.O had been looking for. He had been constantly circulating your information for six months around the U.B.C.S and U.S.F before you were finally apprehended; I was even approached at one point. It didn't take them long after that to find the archive footage of your fight the first time you met, when you killed him, and formulate this plan."

"What plan?" Shakahnna queried, tilting her head to look at the side of his hidden face, to which his response was simply to turn to look at her quietly. When he seemed to be unforthcoming with any further information, she decided not to press the issue. They continued on under a stone arch that passed beneath a balcony and the upper rooms of the motel, and came out onto a dirt track that wound upwards to the left, towards a further line of buildings, these ones appearing to be simple, two-storey dwellings in which the people who had actually inhabited the town lived, or at least, had done prior to the devastation that had been wrought here. To the right was a large, mouldering building that had been boarded up long before the catastrophe, in a state of disuse far worse than the other structures. Religious iconography hung over the door and on the spire atop the roof, revealing it to be a decommissioned church. "So they really want him dead?" the redhead continued, as they walked side-by-side.

"All except Lady Spencer," he replied, "but even as the Chairwoman, she doesn't have enough clout to overrule a unanimous decision on the part of the Board."

"And what about me?" she asked him, their eyes locking for a moment, her own bright emeralds confronting the pinpoints of crimson that lurked behind his goggles, a sign of the infra-red lenses that all U.S.F members used as basic equipment.

"My orders made no mention of you other than to find you and bring you here," he told her flatly, to which she couldn't help but scoff.

"Oh yeah, that be's convenient," the flame-haired girl commented, folding her arms over her chest, "because you'd totally tell me if you'd been sent to kill me as well."

He was silent, whether because she was entirely correct or because he didn't think her tone of voice should have been dignified with an answer. They continued to progress forwards, ignoring the curve of the beaten track and trudging through the thick, dried out grass at its edge, past the abandoned church and onwards towards a small concrete building that appeared to have been built into the side of the rock face that extended upwards to its highest point here. The female's eyes drifted upwards to the top of the miniature mountain and she balked when she found herself staring at what appeared to be a cathedral perched above the rest of the town. Suddenly, the reason for why the original, wooden building that had served as the religious centre of the settlement had been left to decay became apparent. It was a huge stone building realised in high Gothic fashion, like something from the Dark Ages, that rose in the manner of a dark and foreboding crown atop the peak above, murals formed from stained glass depicting various Biblical scenes resting above a pair of wide, oaken doors. Now thoroughly confused, she turned her eyes back to her guide, who had not paused when she had done so, and as such was now waiting for her outside of the bunker that was apparently their destination.

"Alright, what is this place?" she questioned, thrashing through the spindly, knee-high shrubbery, which had turned an unhealthy pale yellow in the sun, before coming to stand directly in front of him.

"Some time ago, this area was the base of operations for a small cult group who believed that the second coming was closer than most expected it to be," Hunk informed her, before gesturing towards the worn, boarded construct that they had passed previously, "they built the church over there, and later, as a show of their devotion, pulled their labour and monetary resources into building the cathedral on top of the hill. They armed themselves to combat the perils of judgement day and intended to hide out here. They were wiped out around ten years ago and a tourist spot was built around the cathedral a while later."

"Whoa, wait, how do you know this?" she interrupted, waving her hands in front of her frantically in order to stop him from continuing without answering her question.

"I was leading the unit that wiped them out," he told her, his tone as blunt and tactless as it had been from the moment they had first met, "they were lunatics to a man, but the Pastor was perfectly sane. He was a former Umbrella employee who sold secrets to Sun Enterprises without knowing that the two were related. When he found out, he ran away, surrounded himself with fanatics and sealed himself in the basement of the cathedral. We killed his followers, and to the best of my knowledge he's still in that basement. The point is that they left a large amount of equipment gathered in preparation for the end of the world in this bunker. You're going to use it to fight Wesker."

"Oh really?" she asked, raising an eyebrow and placing her hands on her hips, regarding the solid metal door and the terminal that held it locked with a degree of scepticism, "don't tell me you know the password for this as well."

"I don't," he stated briskly, before reaching into his trouser pocket and removing a small plastic device with three unlit LED's on the front of its smooth, otherwise unmarked case. He attached it to the screen beside the door and flicked a switch on the side, standing back as the red light blinked on, followed closely by the amber light, and then, after several clicks and mechanical whirrs, the green light. There was a hiss of hydraulics and then a sound that was strikingly similar to elevator doors opening as the thick metal bulkhead covering the entrance hummed aside with a flurry of falling dust as ten years of disuse was shaken free from its outer edges. "Come on," he said, stepping inside and slapping a light switch that was directly inside the doorway.

She did as he suggested and stepped into the lit interior of the single chamber that composed the bunker. Directly opposite the door was a workbench for weapon customisation, wiped clean and lined with various oils, greases and powders, the orderly nature of the space providing a challenge even for the obsessively tidy station of the old S.T.A.R.S gunsmith, Ivan. On the right hand wall was a neatly catalogued cabinet filled to bursting with ammunition of all kinds for pistols, sub-machineguns, assault rifles and sniper rifles. To the left were shelves of weapons covering all of the previously listed categories arranged in neat rows for the perusal of anyone who cared to look. Shakahnna could almost feel an orgasm coming on. "This is absolutely bitching," she announced, grinning broadly, before turning to her companion, "if you weren't Umbrella scum I would totally kiss you."

He ignored her, only indicating a large box strapped to the wall over the work bench. There was a green cross emblazoned across its front and the words "First Aid" written beneath it. "Make sure to patch yourself up if necessary," he ordered, ensuring to remind her lest her gun-lust get the better of her and distract her from her own well-being.

"Yeah, yeah," the redhead responded, with a dismissive wave of her hand as she continued to drool over the veritable horde of destructive power she had been presented with.

"If I were you I'd take the time between now and when Wesker arrives to prepare your game; he's playing by your rules now, so its in your best interests to level the field," he suggested, moving back towards the door, "I can't say for sure, but chances are if you push his capabilities to their limits then you can actually fatigue him to the point where he won't be able to regenerate for some time. I think that might be your best opportunity. If he sees me then the game is over, so I'm withdrawing. It's all up to you."

"If you're leaving then you can be taking a message for me," she told him, turning to look at him with her eyes bright, "tell your Umbrella Board of Scum that when and if I get done with Wesker then I'm coming after them. He might be being the biggest bastard that there is, but they'd better not think I'm gonna stop what I was doing before just because I took him out. As far as I'm concerned, he's just fifty points on the League Table."

-

He could smell her. The scent of her blood, her sweat, that undercurrent of cherries, was all that he could focus on as he prowled through the wasteland beyond the outskirts of his ruined dwelling. He followed the trail that she had unwittingly left for him, intoxicated by it and by the thrill of the hunt. It had been quite some time since he had last embarked on an excursion of this nature. The circumstances that had led him to his first encounter with the young lady who now held him in such thrall, and subsequently, his capture of young Amanda, had been business matters. Indeed, the last time he had enjoyed such a personally gratifying chase was in locating his former subordinates in S.T.A.R.S the first time Doctor Lovette had seen fit to interfere in his affairs. That particular endeavour had ended with relative success for the blond executive. He had enjoyed it greatly. Now, however, he was pursuing someone who might even have been called his equal, so vastly superior to Mister Redfield and Miss Valentine, and the anticipation he was feeling as he lessened the distance between them had caused him to clench his hands into fists entirely involuntarily. Lacking complete control of his faculties was not something he experienced with any frequency, and he would enjoy discovering if the precursory sensations he was experiencing were met by the reality of their final confrontation.

This would hardly be a cordial affair, and so he had done away with his usual formal attire, trading his tailored suit for a set of similarly well-fitting black fatigues and body armour. His boots were military-issue and capped with steel at their points, much the same as those that he had gifted his beloved with some three days earlier, while the combat trousers and short-sleeved, button-down shirt was formed from a weave of various special materials developed by Umbrella. They were fireproof and repelled the majority of assaults, the better to ensure that he remained clothed in situations where his body was more durable than his attire. He wore body armour fastened around his torso, though this was a formality as what his clothing could not stop his skin was more than capable of denying. As was usually the case, his customary sunglasses were perched upon the bridge of his nose, the only part of his garb that had not changed in his transformation from businessman to militant.

He approached a stretch of interstate that separated the barren area he was currently walking through from a small group of buildings clustered around a small, rocky peak that jutted up from the dry, cracked soil like a conical throne, atop which sat a large, stone structure, the setting sun's rays illuminating beautiful panels of stained glass that identified the most prominent of the settlement's landmarks as a place of worship. Her scent was stronger here, diverging and crossing itself constantly as though she had run back and forth across this place many times over the past couple of hours. He elected not to head directly into the centre of the town through the motel's yard, and instead circumvented the location altogether, skirting the steep incline to the left and wandering around, eyeing the edge of the rock wall in an effort to locate the individual he was looking for. He did not need to search far.

She was sitting at the edge of the plateau, some ten feet above, her left leg dangling from the stout rock face while the other's foot was set in front of her on the precipice, utilising her right knee as an arm rest. Unlike their last encounter she seemed content and untroubled, a cigarette that she had acquired from somewhere placed between her lips and releasing feathery wisps of smoke from its lit end. It was clear that she had noticed his approach immediately, but had elected simply to remain where she was, prompting him to move to the base of the stone shelf directly in front of her and glare upwards reproachfully. She offered him nothing more than a pleasant smile as he came closer, that expression splitting into a wide and self-satisfied grin as she tilted her head back and puffed a delicate ellipse of smog into the air above her, the wavering shape floating above her head like a grey halo before it dissipated. Fortune appeared to have been with her, as she appeared to be well-equipped. She wore black fatigues evidently lifted from her surroundings, complimented by similarly-coloured armour that covered her torso, elbows and knees. A crude S.T.A.R.S emblem had been painted onto her right breast in matt green paint to give the impression that she was still loyal to her old organisation, even though it had perished. That fact perplexed him, though he recognised it as a secondary concern when compared to the other equipment she had gathered. At her hips were holstered a pair of high calibre handguns, behind which were loops that grasped two handheld scythes, Kamas as they were commonly known. At her shoulders he could see the straps of a harness, attached to which were an Assault Rifle and a shotgun, held in a cross on her back so that she could access them both with either hand when the situation called for it. There was a string of grenades across her belt and lying across her lap was a box-fed heavy machinegun hanging from a strap around her neck.

"Hey," she murmured as they exchanged eye contact across the space between them, before taking a deep drag on her cigarette until it was down to a stub, rolling it back to her finger and casually flicking it at him. With her usual pinpoint accuracy, the ember ricocheted from his forehead in a small cloud of loose ash and fell to the floor at his feet.

His eyes took in her form, armed to the teeth with weaponry that she had acquired from an unknown source, and raised an eyebrow questioningly. "You would challenge me then, is that it?" he asked her, lifting a hand to idly adjust his sunglasses upon their perch.

"Why? You wanna play?" she asked him, still grinning broadly, the facial injuries he had dealt her making this no less a glorious sight. She was exuberant, cocky and enthusiastic; fortune smiled upon him it seemed, and had seen fit to grant him one last foray with the young woman who had first caught his attention almost a year earlier. Now free of restraints and away from confinements, she finally seemed ready to indulge him in the manner that he had always wished.

"Indeed," he responded, a sneer breaking out on his features with such intensity that it rivalled her own jubilant expression, "I must admit that the thought of a game to see who lives and dies is magnificent."

"Dies?" she queried, placing her hands flat on the rocky ground behind her and pushing herself up onto her feet, her various equipment harnesses rattling against one another as she did so, before fixing him with a playful stare, "you first."

"Though I am certain that your efforts will provide me with ample opportunity for exultation, I sincerely hope that your bravado is not unfounded," the black clad male told her flatly, to which her face became a mask of derision, undercut by the mirth that was constantly tugging at the corners of her mouth, as though the thought that she could be considered his inferior was laughable. He folded his muscular arms across his chest, looking up at her levelly. "Very well," he continued, "let our game commence."

"If you want me," she purred, lifting her right hand to her face and gently parting her bared teeth to allow the pin of the hand grenade clutched there to enter, before pulling it away with a shake of her head and spitting it to the side, "come and get me."

He was moving even before the explosive hit the floor by his feet, surging towards the rock face where she stood in a blur. His hand gripped the lip of the precipice, while his boot slammed into the stone, pulverising the eroded wall, before he pushed up and scaled the shelf in one swift motion. Kneeling atop the next level of the uneven ground, he was uncaring as the grenade detonated behind him with a concussive blast that sent shrapnel and hot dirt in all directions. His beloved was falling back towards the grimy facades of the retailers to her back, one offering a variety of automobile components while two others plied visitors with various comestibles, all three having been abandoned long ago. Seeing him rise to a standing position, she levelled the machinegun hanging around her neck at him. It was a bulky, ugly weapon, lacking in finesse, designed to shoot hot, fat stubs of metal in an unrelenting torrent in a morbidly unintelligent manner. And when she pulled the trigger it did just that, the firearm bucking and snarling in her grasp as she unleashed its destructive power, the leather, fingerless gloves on her hands wrapped tightly around the grip at its base and the handle on top to prevent the aim from going wild.

Bullets raked the parched soil on either side of him throwing up clouds of dry dirt, while others punctured his skin in bursts of crimson spray as he began to stride forward, the barrage rocking him back and forcing him to utilise more effort in his approach. She edged back, maintaining the distance between them, even as her rain of smouldering lead peppered his body with wounds, one slug exploding his palm in a shower of blood and broken fingers; it began to regenerate almost immediately after. His advance quickened, his other hand reaching for her face, when she shrugged the weapon from its strap and threw it to the ground. It had run empty and she had neglected to bring more ammunition for it, reasoning that it was too heavy to carry indefinitely, and that reloading it would take more time than he would be willing to permit. She darted away from his clutches, turning to run for the auto parts store. Blunt plugs of heavy metal clattered to the floor as Wesker willed them out of his body, before following after her at a steady, measured pace.

Shakahnna's arrival to the interior of the building she had been heading towards was in the form of a running dive that took the wooden door of its hinges and sent both her and it crashing to the floor with a loud bang and a thick cloud of dust. She scrambled up and hurried past the rusted racks of items, and the long-forgotten counter across from them, turning at the back of the room to find the looming silhouette of her pursuer standing in the broken entranceway. She reached her right hand up to take hold of the shotgun's grip where it was strapped to her back and pulled it loose, aiming it at the interloper and pulling the trigger. It barked fiercely and the dirt-encrusted window to his right shattered, fragments of buckshot leaving streaks of blood across his skin where they were only powerful enough to scratch it. She vanished into the narrow stairwell at the back of the disused structure, and he pursued her, his boots thundering heavily on the decaying floorboards beneath his feet. Entering the enclosed passage that led upwards to the floor above, he found himself staring directly into the barrel of the weapon she was toting, hearing only the sound of her racking the slide before it roared a second time.

A shotgun is a poor choice of weapon in distanced combat, particularly against a superhuman being such as Albert Wesker; however, at close range it has its chance to shine, no matter its opponent. With the barrel of the twelve-gauge firearm pressed almost flat to his temple, it did not surprise him when the discharge blew the skin from his scalp and mangled his right ear in an eruption of blood. His sunglasses, shattered and twisted, dropped from his face and smashed upon the floor at his feet. In spite of the fact that the majority of the flesh covering the back of his head was missing, he turned to glare up the inclining passage with malice heavy in his eyes, watching her disappear around the top of the landing. Even as he stalked up the stairs after her, the tissue covering the reverse of his skull was beginning to regenerate, soft muscle and fibres covering the exposed section of his skull before in turn being shrouded by fresh, pink epidermis, the recreated follicles sprouting blond hairs to match those that surrounded them until one could hardly tell that he had been wounded. His torn ear twisted and morphed back into its original shape, the blood dripping along the length of his neck the only clue that he had even been injured to begin with.

His ears twitched as the slide of the shotgun was racked once again, and he powered to the top of the stairwell, gripping the barrel of the weapon and turning it aside as it bucked violently and sprayed the wall with shot, blasting apart the plaster that covered the upper floor's interior. She prepared the next shell with her left hand and pulled the trigger again, this attempt also missing him completely and exploding the window at the far end of the room in a cascade of broken glass. Trying vainly to tug the gun free, she was jerked towards him and then thrown backwards into the vertical surface behind her, the black-clad male outmatching her easily using only one arm. Grunting as she was forced against the crumbling mortar, she glared up at him as he came to stand directly in front of her, the fingers of his left hand still clasping the armament while the digits of the other appendage came to take hold of her lower jaw gently. He leaned towards her, monstrous eyes appraising her as they came to be mere inches apart. "You cannot deny me," he asserted, watching as she bit her lower lip in trepidation, moments before that expression split into a wide grin.

"Can and will, bitch," she announced in response, her voice haughty, moments before she drew her head back as far as his proximity would allow and hammered it into his nose. There was a wet crunch and he reeled backwards, taking her weapon with him, allowing her to run past him, hop up onto the sill of the window she had shot through previously, and vault out of the building's second floor. Frowning, Wesker followed her to the opening and looked out over the open area that stood before the abandoned retailers. Shakahnna landed heavily, stumbling to maintain her balance as the impact stung her feet and almost toppled her. Then she reached into the pocket of her uniform's trousers and removed a small, handheld device, longer and more rectangular than a grenade, but without the blade of a knife. It appeared to be just a handle. Or a remote control. Or a detonator.

-

The Semtex that the redhead had located among the stashed weaponry within the bunker had prompted a considerable amount of pondering on her part, as she struggled to come up with a use for it that would utilise the full force of its destructive power. There had been a considerable amount of it, and so any explosion she had rigged would have been huge. Small explosions would have been no good against Wesker anyway. In the end, she felt that she had made the right decision.

The blast from the trap that she had set sent a ball of atomised concrete, mortar and flames roaring into the air as the three retailers were blown to smithereens. The force of the detonation knocked her flat and sent her curling into a ball as hot dust and larger fragments of the buildings she had destroyed rained around her. Before the devastation wrought by the initial part of her plan had even begun to settle, however, there was a terrible, lengthy groan as the four, two-storey residences used by the settlement's citizens before their collective demise yawed backwards and tumbled down from their perch on the next level of the tiered town and collapsed on top of the rubble that had already been made of the stores at their backs, burying the blond all the more beneath concrete blocks and wooden supports.

Thick, gritty smog choked the landscape as the gamine righted herself, throwing aside the spent remote that was clutched in her right hand and placing a hand to her forehead as she tried to navigate the myopia that had settled over the surrounding area, seeing nothing but ghosts and shadows at the periphery of her vision, and constantly having to blink away eyes full of tears and irritation at the dust and sand that was refusing to settle. Those watery orbs widened as a dark, humanoid shape loomed out of the miasma, cursing loudly as her dogged paramour reappeared, his clothing torn, his body lacerated and his face a mess of blood and angry, purple bruising where he had been punished by the downpour of stone. These injuries were gradually fading even as she watched, however, and so she felt that now was the time to move on, turning her back on him and running away along the shelf in the direction that she remembered the motel to be in.

She reached the metal steps that led down from the rocky upper level to the car park she had noticed earlier, three rusted automobiles parked indefinitely in their spaces. Reasoning that she had no time to descend the stairs, she gripped the handrail and vaulted over the side, plummeting down to land atop the roof of one of the unfortunate vehicles below, leaving two large dents where her feet slammed into the metal and cracking the windshield and rear window with her weight. She hopped quickly to the tarmac via the trunk and began to run for the metal gate that led into the yard of the abandoned motorists' resting place, believing that the blond would be right on her tail. Her assumptions proved to be correct when she was drawn by the sound of steel being tortured in a manner that sounded far too peculiar to be ignored. When she turned her head she needed only a brief glimpse of what the male was doing to know to throw herself down onto the floor, moments before the car that she had landed on was thrown through the air at head-height and mangled the wrought iron gate that she had been moving towards, as well as a fair section of the wall. Seeing that exit now unviable, she clambered to her feet and turned to her left, running towards a second door in this yard, this one covered with various notices that prohibited entry. Unfortunately, she didn't rate her chances of climbing over the wreckage that was blocking the fence or circumnavigating the wall via the stretch of freeway that ran alongside both, and though she did not know for sure where this building went, it might at least give her an opportunity to slip back the way she had come without him noticing.

She kicked through the entrance of what could only have been a generator room, running across the metal grille that made up the floor and in among the various, complicated electrical devices, secreting herself between two in particular and pressing her back against what felt like a control panel, an array of buttons and levers jabbing at her back. The electricity, and most likely the water, had been cut off in this place for some time, and so everything was veiled with the same thin layer of the grime that covered everything else. Not only that, but the interior of the building was pitch black, without windows or lighting to illuminate it in the way that the other buildings had; she regretted not having done something with this room prior to the blond's arrival. When Wesker entered after her, she tensed and tried to remain as quiet as she could, though she didn't rate her chances of avoiding him for long. If worst came to worst then she could always use one of her grenades again, but the chamber was composed almost entirely of metal and that would make for some unfortunate shrapnel were she to unleash an explosive. Instead, she simply waited.

"Perhaps you assumed that you could evade me, my dear," he purred into the darkness, "however, you underestimate the capability of my senses. It is only a matter of time before I locate you and then there will be no escape."

The redhead's right hand brushed against a large, round button that stood out from the rest of the items on the control panel, and she hoped against hope that the generator was still primed, even if it were not active. "Keep listening," she whispered, barely even breathing the words so that she had his full attention, before she pressed down on the switch behind her.

Lights blinked on moments before there was the thunderous cacophony of an electrical system sputtering to life. The noise made the young woman wince and clamp her hands over her ears, though for how painful it was for her, it must have been a hundred times so for the man whose senses were enhanced by the virus flowing through his veins. Almost to confirm her assertions, there was a more organic roar added to the storm of noise as the older individual threw back his head and cried out from the sudden and overwhelming sensory input. Seeing him illuminated, standing merely ten metres from her position, she whirled out into the metal-floored corridor he was standing in and whipped her Assault Rifle over her shoulder, switching it to fire on full-auto and pulling the trigger. The weapon flared at its barrel and bullets struck her target, ricocheting off the iron fixtures where they occasionally missed. One stray round struck a pipe to the male's left and stale, pressurised water erupted out in a spray that drenched him from head to foot and peeled the skin from his arm and cheek. He began to pursue her again, his jaw clenched and his eyes flaring with murder, so she threw the spent firearm at him crudely and darted away. To her great relief there was another door, equally laden with warning stickers as the first, that stood almost opposite the original entrance but for the twisting, turning nature of the structure's interior.

She kicked it open and burst out into a yard that was silent compared to the small building behind her. A small device, possibly a water pump, worked in relative quiet, but apart from that there was little to truly concern her. That was, until she looked around and realised that she was standing inside a fenced compound which appeared to be, to all intents and purposes, a dead end. Running up to the chain links, she gazed through at the church she had been heading for before Wesker had cut her off, having gotten so close but then been denied. The top of the boundary was covered in barbed wire and though this would not have bothered her otherwise, the fact that the blond was most likely on her heels even now discounted the possibility of her climbing over. A gap had been cut in the fence, but was far too small for her to squeeze through without employing some considerable effort, yet another course of action she could not take due to time constraints. Casting around for anything that might give her the upper hand in the same manner that the generator had done moments ago, she resigned herself and withdrew her Kamas from her belt, twirling the weapons up and setting her feet as she waited for him to emerge from the power room.

His clothing was sodden when he emerged into the bronze sunlight of the evening, glaring at her as the left side of his face began to recompose itself, muscle tissue swathing bone and wrapping in new flesh. Before long the only sign that he had even been hit with a geyser of compressed water was the fact that he was still dripping with it. Trails of blood were running from his ears where the internal drums had burst, though she had no doubt that those too had healed now. When he cast an eye at their surroundings, however, he almost started to smile again. His right hand moved to the sheath harness on his left shoulder and removed the blade that had been placed there with an almost nonchalant air, twisting it in his hand so that it was held downwards. "Shall we?" he enquired, bowing his head in a display of mock gentility.

"If you think you can keep up," she responded, adjusting her stance so that she was holding one of her weapons across her body horizontally, while the other was lifted upright in front of her, the scythe-blades positioned so that they could be swung in any direction to parry his attacks and injure him at the same time, whichever angle he elected to strike from.

"I guarantee it," he asserted, lunging forwards with a straight swipe that she denied with the blade of her vertical weapon, twisting it around so that the sharpened edges sparked against one another and then swung clear, flicking her opposing wrist and opening a wide gash on his forearm as it passed her, moments before he reversed the motion and came at her again from the other direction, forcing her to jerk backwards to prevent the weapon from stabbing her in the throat, before darting into his reach and slicing neatly across his abdomen, ducking under his left hand as it reached for her and reasserting her guarded stance, having changed their relative positions in the yard.

He struck forward again, this time aiming for a stab that she parried to the side and twisted out of the way of, before bringing the scythe that was an extension of her left arm around and cutting into his extended wrist. She spun, catching him in his exposed side with her right weapon, and whirled past him, bringing the bloodied off-hand blade down to impale him through the reverse of his ribcage. Convulsing as he lurched forward, the sharpened edge was pulled from where it was lodged in between his ribs, having punctured his left lung. She spread her arms, bringing the dual weapons out in preparation to swing them both across his neck in one motion and decapitate him, only for him to round on her faster than she could comprehend, his knife whistling through the air dangerously close to her face. Starting backwards, she almost lost her footing as the point sliced the tip of her nose in an exceptionally painful manner, causing her to scream involuntarily and abandon her attempts at taking off his head. Almost completely without her knowledge, she parried two more strikes completely through reflex and hopped backwards in a bid to recover her bearings and find her place in the fight that was continuing in spite of her momentary disequilibrium. She whirled the Kamas around in her hands, bringing them up in a cross as he attempted a vertical swipe and came to meet the centre point with a clatter. Willing her weapons to stay in place in her hands, lest they slip and allow him to wound her, or worse, slit her from throat to belly, she forced all of her muscle power into keeping the items raised. Once again, he was matching her easily using only one of his hands.

Completely without warning, he released their impasse and allowed the force of her pushing to carry her past him, whipping his blade across her back as she tumbled forwards. The wound ran along the area of flesh just beneath her shoulders, cutting through the cloth of the armour that she was wearing, her momentum almost sending her careening face-first into the water pump she had identified earlier, though she managed to stop herself and spun around to face him again as he came for her once again. She evaded him, fuelled by adrenaline and rage at having been duped in such a manner, whirling around him for a second time. There was a wet stabbing noise as she embedded her left-hand weapon in his back, where it was promptly ripped out of her grip, moments before there was a dull thud and she backed away from him, holding up her remaining scythe and glaring at him as she backed away. Her eyes opened wider when she realised that the arm which had been clutching his knife was now lying amid the dirt on the ground, severed just above the elbow. She gaped, moments before he lunged forwards and kicked her firmly in the gut, sending her reeling backwards and falling through the narrow hole in the fence that she had noticed prior to their battle. The cut sections of chain link sliced into her arms, leaving thin, bloody trails across both of her upper appendages, and she fell backwards onto her rear end on the outside of the small compound, her second weapon wedging in the fence. She looked up as Wesker stooped to retrieve his sundered limb and watched in horror as he lifted it to the stump she had left him with, a sickening crack followed by a more lengthy stretching sound heralding the fusion of bone and flesh. He lifted his right hand and clenched a first, looking at it as though satisfied, before walking towards the place where she was sitting.

She scrambled up, ignoring the agony flaring in her stomach, and began to run even as he gripped the section of fencing she had fallen through and tore it out of the ground, casting it aside as though it were no more substantial than paper. Darting across the open ground between the yard outside the power room and the boarded up Church which was her intended destination, she thought that perhaps the blond would catch her before she was able to get there. The way he was acting made her reconsider that thought, however, as she considered that he had mostly been walking after her throughout their confrontation, perhaps intent on reminding her that he would always be following her, persistent and unrelenting. If that was true then she imagined Hunk's assertions to be right, he wanted her and was trying to convince her that fighting him was a futile effort; he had told her so many times in the past, after all. On the other hand, she knew that he was capable of regenerating whole limbs, and his decision to reattach his severed arm was a fairly telling action. She thought that maybe she was pushing his body to its limits, not giving him enough time to heal his wounds, forcing him to play it safe; she hoped to God that this was the case, because if she could wear him down then eventually she could kill him. As much as she hated to rely on anything other than her own capability, she had to hope that he was too blinkered by his desire for her, as well as his own arrogance, to realise what it was that she was doing and finish the battle before she was able to make the killing blow.

Reaching the abandoned Church without incident, she hopped up onto the frame of a window that was lacking its boards and vanished into the gloom of its interior. Dust was heavy on the wooden pews and cobwebs strung the ceiling and walls, though someone had moved through the structure prior to her entering. Indeed, she had pried the boards off herself and prepared this building for just this moment, moving past the disorganised furnishings and coming to stand by the stripped altar at the far end of the main chamber. Even as she did so, the stalking sociopath exploded in through the decaying double doors that marked the only entrance, shattering one to pieces and knocking the other off its hinges in a clatter of splintering wood with a simple spread of his arms. He stepped forward, eyeing her suspiciously as she leaned down to pick something up that had been placed behind the box that formed the focal point of the crumbling building's inner recesses. As she rose up, her right boot slammed into the empty shrine and knocked it over, revealing the weapon that she had just retrieved. She twisted the valve on the Flamethrower's chrome nozzle, igniting the harshly whispering blue flame at its end, and aimed it in his direction. A broad grin split her features once again, as her plan began to come to fruition after a minor setback, and she tilted her head to appraise him cockily. "Burn, baby!" she yelled exuberantly, pulling the trigger.

A tongue of shimmering yellow flame erupted from the end of the device in her grasp as the fuel ignited and streaked through the air towards him, dousing him in fire. She adjusted her arm, liberally spraying the area around him and ensuring that the building was completely ablaze. Mouldering beams broke as they burned through, collapsing around him, several striking him and momentarily holding him trapped amongst them before he threw them off, his silhouette in the fire seemingly completely undeterred by the raging inferno around it, continuing to stride towards her across the now-smouldering floorboards. She reared back and tossed the weapon to the floor at his feet, before turning and hurtling towards a particularly rotten section of the wall, smashing it into fragments and falling to the ground as she almost tumbled down the slope that led downwards to the right. Her hands worked to rid her of the spider's webs caught in her hair and on her face, prioritising her immediate comfort over running from the murderous B.O.W who was currently pursuing her, before she dusted herself down and began to run back into the settlement, passing the concrete bunker that Hunk had led her to previously on her right. There was an explosion as the metal tank of her Flamethrower gave out, the heat of the burning structure at her back increasing exponentially as flame spurted from every open point on its exterior. Soon it would be nothing but a charred husk, if that, but she doubted it would stop her monstrous paramour. She was rather counting on that fact, as she had not yet expended every weapon in her arsenal.

She hurried past the broken façades of the settlement's four residences, now with nothing behind their front walls but a straight drop into a pile of rubble, and pushed herself onwards up the incline towards the start of the steeper slope that led to the cathedral at the very apex of the small town. By this point she was in considerable discomfort from the minor injuries he had caused her during their battle, as well as the more serious wounds she had suffered at his hands prior to her escape. Her throat was raw, her back felt like it was on fire and her right wrist was aching, though the graft was at least doing its job at keeping her sealed shut. Doctor Lovette's work on her tendons also seemed to be holding up, as she was not experiencing any twitches in her fingers, indeed, her aim seemed steadier even than before with that hand. She was also panting heavily and soaked with sweat, neither of which were states she particularly favoured when she wasn't getting laid, though she reasoned that whatever her situation, Wesker was worse off. Even with his inhuman abilities, there was no way being burned to a cinder wouldn't at least hurt considerably.

Rounding the corner to begin the climb up to the very top of the staggered community, she shot a look back towards the burning building further down the hill. The fire was now raging out of control, flames rolling from the roof and thick black smoke drifting up into the sky. Emerging from the broken doors, however, was Albert Wesker, or so she assumed. He was a black, featureless mass of charred skin and baked fireproof clothing, striding inexorably onwards in spite of the fact that he should have been dead now, his mutated, inhuman organs cauterised internally from the intense heat. That he was coming for her still was proof of his resilience, of how much the virus running through his veins had separated him from the rest of the species he had once belonged to. It was also proof of how fucking mental he had gone, considering that he was following her so willingly after being burned to a crisp.

Wasting no time with further staring, she bolted up the path, scrambling in the dirt when pieces of stone dislodged under her feet, pulling herself up with her hands when walking became too difficult, before finally reaching the irregular plateau that held the crowning glory of the cult Umbrella's soldiers had once exterminated. Gasping for breath, she pushed through the doors into the building's interior and slammed them shut behind her, before lifting a long, cast iron flagpole bearing a vision of an angel passing judgement from its stand by the entrance and thrust it through the handles, barricading the portal for the time being. She turned to look out across the wide hall of the structure before her.

The floor was shimmering white marble that stretched from corner to corner of the forsaken sanctuary, underlying the stone pews that ran in four lines, two on each side of the chamber, several of which had been moved out of position some time ago to block the passage down the centre and were riddled with bullet holes, the final stand of the men and women who had opposed the ruthless aggression of the U.S.F, and later, the citizens of the small township who had still been alive to fight the zombies. Any survivors had fled; any dead had staggered after them. At the far end of the structure was a huge statue of that same angel of judgement that had been embroidered on the flag, evidently the symbol of the deviant church that had been led by the corrupt Umbrella employee, carrying a sword and shield, her mouth set in a tight frown of determination, standing behind a wide, stone altar that seemed to be the position from which the pastor had performed his oratories. On either side were further, smaller carvings of men and women clad in tatters, holding the world aloft in triumph, as ugly, little gargoyles cowed from their glory. The smaller statues were supposed to be weeping, she realised, but the fountains had long run dry along with the well beneath the town. From large, colourful windows streamed the golden light of the setting sun, causing everything to glint and glimmer beautifully. The ceiling was high, almost in excess of one hundred metres overhead, set with large, stained glass murals depicting the angel locked in mortal struggle with a creature that could only have been the Devil. Neither looked as though they would yield in the slightest, and she supposed that this was fitting. Because this would be where she and Wesker, both unwilling to back down an inch, would have the last battle of their little war.

This would be the last stand.


	12. Episode Five Point Two

**Episode Five Point Two: I'll Be Seeing You In Hell**

The sun had descended low on the horizon, bathing everything in a fiery, golden glow, and a gentle breeze had picked up, soft fingers caressing the surroundings lightly. They stripped the charred flesh from his body, casting it away in a blizzard of blackened flakes that drifted in his wake as he followed the path of his beloved. Before long, his skin had transformed from malformed, ugly ebony to its usual pale white, his features reasserting themselves on the front of his burned skull, the lids covering his eyes opening to reveal his mutated orbs as though they had not just been licked out of his head by a tongue of ferocious flame. He shuddered as he reached the rock face that led upwards towards the summit of the tiered settlement, the remaining baked pieces of epidermis thrown from his body by his intensely rapid movement. He glared up at the lip of the plateau on which the cathedral was placed, knowing that this was where she was leading him, and leapt upwards, the motion carrying him over the edge and setting him down in a crouch before the barricaded front entrance of the holy building. He stood, striding forward impatiently and placing his hands to the sturdy, brass fittings attached to the double doors, before he wrenched the entire fixture from its hinges, along with the flagpole that had been wedged through its handles, the frame around it shattering into grey, concrete chunks. Hurling the brutalised oak panels aside, he stepped forward into the main chamber of the grandiose church, his eyes surveying the surroundings for any sign of his beloved. Once again, she was in plain sight, her form easily identifiable, standing atop the large stone plinth that made up the building's altar, feet spread and arms folded across her chest. She was waiting for him.

"End of the line, bitch," she informed him, glaring at him across the length of the expansive room they were both currently occupying. He cast a cursory glance to each side, before turning his gaze back to her questioningly.

"I trust you have devised a suitably futile scheme to render me incapacitated, in much the same manner as your previous attempts, my dear," he commented with a sneer, his facial expression matched by that of the young woman currently staring him down from the opposing end of their battleground.

"Nope," she stated flatly, "no more tricks and no more traps. We're gonna do this now, no more games, just you and me. One of us has to die; it can't be any other way."

"You still wish to seek retribution against me for my supposed crimes?" he queried, raising a threatening eyebrow, his slit-like pupils flaring with angry, red light even as he spoke, giving the redhead the distinct impression that she was indeed facing off with the devil himself.

"No," she announced solemnly, her answer taking her black-clad tormentor aback, though he did not show externally, "it's not about justice anymore. With you it's personal; I have to get you back for what you did to me and everyone I've ever loved. If justice really existed then someone would have taken care of you long ago, you'd never have been given the chance to hurt anyone. I'm sick of justice; I just want to kill you."

"I welcome your best effort," he told her. Her hands snapped to her sides, gripping the two pistols holstered on either side of her waist, before pulling them free of their confinements and lifting them, dragging back the firing mechanism on both before levelling them at him. He smirked, aware that even with the best aim in the world she would be unable to harm him with those weapons. And so he stepped forward.

The weapons barked, two metal studs ripping into his chest moments later, the impact rocking him slightly on his feet, moments before he was gripped by an intense, overwhelming agony that tore through his upper body in much the same way as the Tyrant's claw that had killed him for the first time. Though he remained stoically silent, the pain was proving difficult to suppress. It did not take him long to realise why it was that he seemed incapable of overcoming this usually minor injury, however, as he reminded himself of the damage that she had already dealt him during this battle thus far. She had crushed him beneath tons of stone, deafened him, drenched him, amputated his arm and then proceeded to set him ablaze. Each time his virally-enhanced capacity for regeneration had allowed him to continue unhindered by his injuries, but now it seemed that even his inhuman endurance was reaching its limits. She had stressed his system to a point where it was beginning to admit defeat, where he was even beginning to feel the fatigue and exertion of minor actions. He had almost forgotten what it had felt like to be weak.

A further shot tore through his right shoulder, causing his entire arm to spasm and throb, while another slammed into his gut in a spray of blood. All the while her face was contorted in an expression somewhere between a grimace of determination and a smile of glee. He reached a stone pew that had been dragged into the centre aisle, his pathway towards the shrine where his young lover was positioned, and gripped its right edge with one hand, hurling it to the side with rather more effort than it would normally have taken to move such an item. It tumbled end over end through the air and then shattered against the left wall, exploding one of the extravagant sculptures created by the structure's original builders, exultant worshippers, cowing gargoyles and the world itself crumbling into dust at the impact. He strode onwards, unstoppable, barely flinching as a fifth bullet sliced through the side of his neck and ignoring a sixth as it exploded his right eye in an eruption of life fluid, before a thick tear of dark crimson began to trail down his cheek. His torn lid fell limply over the empty socket and then it flicked open once more, revealing the shining, blood red orb that had formed in place of the ruined previous occupant. Immediately, splotches of white began to appear on its glassy surface, spreading out and connecting, before a black slit appeared at its centre and its gold and scarlet rings spread forth to surround it. He continued to walk, lifting a hand to wipe away the river of vermilion from his face, but undeterred by his body's rapid and extreme regeneration.

The blond reached a second concrete bench, seizing this one by its leftmost armrest and tossing it away in much the same way as he had done with the previous furnishing. It sheered the air and slammed into the second collection of statues that made up the building's décor, turning them into nothing more than broken fragments. Another barrage of hot, metal slugs left a burning crater in his right thigh and another just below his collar bone, both wounds adding only further fuel to the fire of suffering that was gripping him. He had to suppress the urge to grin broadly. Since obtaining immortality it had been difficult to find such extreme sensations; though intensely painful, this could only be described as a pleasure. Two more rounds pitted his torso, moments before he reached a third barricade lying in his path. This one he gripped under the seat and lifted it so that it was on the same level as his shoulders, before turning to the side and throwing it in the same manner as a bulky, stone javelin. The redhead's eyes widened and her heart leapt into her throat at the same time as she herself vaulted head first off the altar, avoiding the flying pew by a hair's breadth as it demolished the table she had previously been standing on. It continued on, sundered in half by its impact with the solid surface of the shrine and twisted in the air by the sudden halt of its front end, slamming into the muscular thighs of the angel of judgement in a spray of rocky splinters and dust. Shakahnna rolled awkwardly on the marble floor, unable to use her hands due to the weapons currently clutched in them, landing hard on her right shoulder as she rolled through the tumble and coming to rest in a crouch several yards away. She winced, rolling her upper arm in a bid to massage away some of the ache there, before there was the subtle sound of cracking stone from somewhere overhead. She glanced up and then hurled herself aside reflexively as the shield-bearing left arm of the angel came crashing to the floor behind her.

Wesker loomed out of the settling dust almost before she was capable of getting her bearings, startling her into bringing her weapons to bear upon him and firing them in rapid succession. He simply vanished, forcing her to adjust her aim and catch him approaching from her left, shooting at him once again before he disappeared for a second time. She cursed, turning on her heel and pulling the triggers of her dual pistols even before she had confirmed his position. He had been exactly where she had expected him to be, though only for a moment, and her bullets struck nothing but empty air once again. Roaring with frustration, she spun around once more and pressed the muzzles of both guns into his abdomen as he appeared directly behind her, her range point-blank, and fired. There was nothing but a hollow snap from both semi-automatics.

"Shit!" she howled, seconds before his right boot slammed into her stomach, the last pieces of her considerable arsenal being wrenched from her grip by the hands of her darkly paramour, who was clutching both prior to the blow that felled her. The young woman staggered back, trying to maintain balance, but quickly surrendering to gravity, which pulled her down onto her rear end with a distinct lack of grace. Looking up at him, she watched as he lifted the matching handguns and promptly crushed them into twisted mockeries of what they had once been, and then discarded them idly. She could not help but pout; she had liked those guns.

"Will you continue to resist me without a weapon with which to defend yourself?" he asked, watching her predatorily as she scrambled up to her feet. On her way back to her feet she snatched up a fallen flagpole that had been stripped of its banner, hefting it like a spear and bringing it around to aim in his direction. She grinned to herself when she realised that the tip thrust towards his face was actually pointed anyway.

"Weapon or not, I'm not giving in to you, bitch," she informed him, setting her feet apart and tightening her grip around the haft of the relatively slender staff she had recently acquired. He sneered, lunging towards her, only for her to adjust the position of her lance and bring it down, stabbing the end through his right thigh, holding him back and forcing him down to one knee, before quickly withdrawing the bladed point from the meat of his leg. She swung it up, cleaving a line of red across his stomach and left forearm, before following the motion through and bringing the reverse of the weapon around to strike him in the side of the head, the metal rattling his skull as it slammed into his right ear.

With the fluidity of a natural warrior, the flame-haired female reversed the motion of her arms and brought the blade of her spear back around. It passed inches from his throat as he sprang up and out of her reach, blocking and turning aside a further jab with his right forearm as she pressed her advantage. She hurled herself forward in a bid to run him through, and was stunned when she found herself standing immediately in front of him, still clasping the majority of the pole that was now transfixing his sternum. Looking up at him, however, she got the impression that this was not the killing stroke she had hoped it might be. His response was to strike her with a clenched right fist, such a solid impact that it seemingly caused her to make the transition between vertical and horizontal without any movement in between. Her mouth filled with blood and her head throbbed as she tried and failed to sit up. For his part, he gripped the weapon that she had impaled him with and promptly ripped it out of his abdomen, throwing it aside and paying no heed to the trails of blood that were already diminishing even as he tossed away the item that had wrought them.

She rolled to the side, clambering to her feet again, though this time in a manner that was markedly more sluggish. With nothing left but to defend herself with her own hands and feet she lifted her fists in front of her face and spaced her stance preparing to resist him with all she had remaining, hoping that this would be enough. His first punch seemed lazy, almost bored, and she ducked it easily, lunging forwards into a rapid flurry of blows into his abdomen, her knuckles impacted solidly with his stomach, before she reared back and thrust her right hand upwards in an uppercut that struck him in the lower jaw and staggered him. Or at least, that was what she imagined had happened. He casually stepped backwards with the blow and swung his own appendage again in a stinging backhand across the face that shook her whole, stout frame and sent her reeling. Blood drooled out of her mouth as she pitched forwards, preventing herself from falling over with her hands, and then pushing herself back up into a standing position. Trails of red were running from her lips and the area around the lower part of her face was swollen with bruising, though she turned back to face him almost immediately. His forearm caught her full in the left temple before she had even had time to see him approach, the second successful attack causing her eye to swell shut as dark purple bruising spread across the upper portion of her features. She righted herself immediately, thrusting her right boot forwards and kicking into his opposing knee with an intention to shatter the joint there and perhaps even the playing field. It almost seemed that he did not even feel the move, and she was doubled over by a kick that thudded into her stomach and drove the air out of her.

She lashed out wildly with her right fist, feeling his left hand come to encircle her wrist, before his other appendage clamped down over her shoulder. There was a moment of subtle, ever-increasing pressure and then a pop as the limb was once again dislocated, causing her to scream aloud and collapse to her knees, her head lolling back and then falling forwards, her breath coming in long, laboured gasps as she tried to recover from the injury he had dealt her previously. Her remaining arm held to the wounded area of its kin, she rolled almost subconsciously aside as he made to grab her, coming up to her feet again and casting around with her one, viable eye in a desperate bid to find him before he could knock her down again. She couldn't even see which direction his next attack came from when his boot slammed into her chest with a sharp crack that made her gasp and stumble backwards, before she slumped to her knees and then forwards onto her face. Her breathing became all the more heavy, strings of blood issuing from her lips as her pants dislodged them from where the crimson droplets were staining the insides of her mouth. She gasped aloud as he stooped to grip the back of her head by a handful of hair that tugged at the scalp beneath, before he hauled her up to a standing position, placing his second hand around her jaw and turning her gaze upwards to face him. In spite of the fact that her head was swimming and her eyes were blurry and unfocused, she was still perfectly capable of coughing a gobbet of blood into his face.

"That all you got, you pussy?" she slurred, her right arm still hanging limply at her side as he held her elevated. He did not seem amused by her actions and elected to adjust his grip upon her head, removing the first hand from the reverse of her cranium and relocating the second to encompass her throat. Then he lifted her off her feet and she began to choke.

Her resistance was feeble and futile, as she struggled to find a purchase somewhere on his body in order to take the full weight of her own mass off her neck, locking her left arm around the one that was strangling her in a weakened effort to suspend herself from something other than her windpipe. She was fatigued and her consciousness was wavering, her choked gasps for air blowing into his face as it glared at her from directly opposite. There position was close and personal, their bodies almost pressed together, but there was nothing she could do to use that fact to her advantage feeling as tired as she did. Her only remaining arm drooped and fell to match the slack limb opposite to it, striking against something solid in the pocket of her trousers. She felt her heart skip a beat, wondering if perhaps she had one weapon left on her person that she had forgotten about, and her mind urged her to discover the truth of the item. Lifting her shaking hand, she dipped it into the recesses of her combats, closing her fingers around her salvation, the fountain pen that she had taken from Adrian's pockets during their encounter beneath Wesker's mansion.

The redhead withdrew it and flipped the cap from the end with a flick of her thumb, before lifting it up and driving it into the male's throat. He convulsed and jerked backwards, releasing her from his grip and dropping her onto the marble floor where she bounced heavily. Ignoring her body's protests and sucking in oxygen for all she was worth, she took one deep, long breath and then thrust her right shoulder forwards into the ground. There was a click and she screamed the air out of her lungs, before forcing back the pain and moving her right arm to push herself up. The young woman stood, shaking from the exertion, and quickly lunged towards the wreckage that had once been the altar, not daring to spare her injured lover even a moment's glance. Her hands sank into the shattered concrete, throwing aside pieces of mortar and stone that had once been quite beautiful décor, before she located what she had been looking for, a shining piece of metal amid the dull, lustreless debris. She picked it up carefully, not wanting to sever a finger on the edge she herself had sharpened to have a razor's acuteness. Rising to her feet, she rounded on the older individual and lifted the keen-edged shrapnel, quickly placing it to her own neck. The blond paused, hand outstretched, as he came to realise what was occurring.

"And what, pray tell, do you intend to do with that item?" he asked, inclining his head and moving his arms to fold across his chest, regarding her with curiosity.

"Shut up!" she snapped, the very act of talking causing her jaw to throb from the heavy bruising covering the lower half of her face, "I'll cut my own fucking head off if you come even one step closer; I mean it, I'm not playing games any more."

"You will not..." he began, taking one confident stride forward, only to hesitate once again when her hands tensed around the makeshift blade held to her throat, the action causing the slightest laceration to appear on her skin and a single drop of dark crimson to roll along the length of her skin to rest within the fabric about her collar bone. It had the effect that she had hoped for, rooting him to the spot several feet away from her. With any luck she would be able to talk to him sensibly before his hubris overtook him and he convinced himself that he would be able to reach her in time to disarm her.

"I know you're not going to do anything to risk me dying, so maybe we can be talking like grown-ups for once," she insisted, watching as a derogatory sneer started to creep onto his features, "and don't you even be thinking about feigning disaffection at me, bitch. We both know what the truth is and it would be nice just to cut the shit, alright?"

His expression returned to its neutral composition, continuing to watch her intently from his position almost, waiting for a moment of inattention on her part, until eventually his own muscles slackened slightly. "Very well," he responded, electing to humour her.

"I know you didn't follow me all the way out here, get shot, blown up, deafened and burned alive just so that you could kill me; you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble by just doing that right away," she informed him, matching his gaze with a glare of her own, stares that would have rendered both of them deceased if looks could kill, "so I'm gonna be giving you one more chance. Forget all about Umbrella and everything, give it all up, and be coming with me now. We'll go find somewhere a long, long way from here. It's the only solution; no one gets hurt and you get what you want."

"I believe that I have made my thoughts clear on such requests," the blond asserted bluntly, his opponent's countenance taking on a glimmer of sadness, having realised ahead of him that this situation was only going to end badly, "however, I feel it would be appropriate to make a proposition of my own. Return with me to be sequestered at my estate once again and I will overlook these ... recent indiscretions of yours."

She shook her head sadly, ignoring the improvised knife poised at her throat as it widened the slice that she had already cut into her neck with her movement. "You know I can't do that," she explained, "even if you didn't need to be punished for what you've done, I can't let you go on hurting people the way you do. I don't want to die, and I could honestly think of worse things than a lifetime to, you know, do all that kind of stuff with someone like you, but at this stage it's not about what I want. It's about what needs to be done. And if I can't kill you then I'll just have to settle for hurting you, and I can do that by taking away the only thing that you've ever really, honestly wanted."

Her hands moved imperceptibly, the sharpened edge opening a larger, shallow gash upon her skin that unleashed a torrent of vermilion along the side of her neck. She was unable to stifle the gasp that followed, the situation making the sensation no less appealing to her personal tastes, though she readied herself for the very real possibility that it would be the last sensation she ever had the pleasure to experience. "You truly believe yourself capable of such an act?" the black-clad male queried, raising an eyebrow as he did so, "even if you have prepared yourself mentally, you are both fatigued and injured; you will be unable to resist if I intercede."

"Erm, exsqueeze me?" the redhead exclaimed petulantly, "who blew who up? Who burned who to a crisp? Because I can't remember being buried under a ton of rock today, so you tell me who's fatigued and injured, you fuck. Besides, I made this thing myself and its fucking sharp. You might be able to get to me, but chances are that by the time you do I'll already be halfway through. Even if you manage to keep me alive, I'm not gonna be much more than a vegetable, and can you honestly say that you want me around if I can't indulge you? What fun is that gonna be for you exactly?"

He was silent, a moment of stillness settling in the air of the cathedral's interior. The fine dust of shattered monuments drifted around them and nothing moved, the stand-off between them motivated by Shakahnna having taken herself hostage coming to an inevitably tense conclusion. Though the inhuman executive did not need to breathe, his lover was likewise refraining from releasing the air in her lungs, the momentary peace likely to implode the moment either of them made the slightest of moves. His muscles locked rigid one by one as he prepared to intervene in her suicide, while those in her arms also strained at the skin around them, the sharpened edges of the shrapnel piece biting into her palms and drawing the slightest droplets of blood. And then the female blinked. There was a noise like a compressed hurricane as Wesker powered forward, followed by the sound of a sharp, wet tearing as a neck was sundered. A severed head bounced upon the marble floor and rolled to a stop several feet away.

Moments later, the corpse of Albert Wesker slumped to the ground.

The metal shard clattered at the young woman's feet, as she lifted her trembling hands before her face, staring at the lacerations marring her palms like shallow stigmata, before moving them to encircle her throat and ensure the integrity of the connection between her own head and torso. She released a slow, shuddering breath and slumped to her knees, momentarily overcome as she observed the cadaver before her numbly. Then she threw her head back and began to laugh, peels of insane, hysterical cackling echoing back and forth from the walls of the stone building. Her eyes screwed shut as tears beaded at their corners before streaming down her cheeks in rivers. It was painful, almost unbearably so, to laugh like that with her face so swollen, but she honestly did not care. She scrambled to her feet and rushed towards the decapitated cranium lying nearby, striking it with her right boot and sending it skidding off under the pews with an ebullient scream of "fuck you!"

She paused, falling silent for a moment and turning her eyes towards the collapsed body nearby, before running back to it and skidding down onto the floor. There was something missing from this triumph, and she was almost certain that she knew what it was and where to find it. Her quivering fingers worked across the front of his fireproofed flak jacket, brushing away the charred outer layer of burned residue from the flamethrower to reveal the unharmed weave that the garments were composed of. Working her way across the pockets with her hands, she finally located something of the correct size and shape, seizing it quickly and tugging it out of the recesses of the tattered flak jacket. It was miraculously still intact in spite of the ravages that had been wrought on both the clothing and the individual wearing them, and she was able to quickly conclude that this was exactly what she had been looking for. For whatever reason, either because it was precious to her or simply because he had grown used to carrying it, he had brought it with him to their battle. Grinning, she held the item in the palm of her right hand, a small, leather-bound pocketbook. The League Table.

The fountain pen that had previously been impaled in her paramour's neck was lying, dripping blood from its nib, several yards away, evidently having been ripped out by the man after she had attacked him with it. She took it up now and thumbed open the book, ignoring the red smears she was leaving on each page with her fingers as she turned to a fresh sheet. Without even bothering to draw out a tally, she scrawled "I WIN!" across the spread and snapped the covers shut, discarding the pen and hugging the notepad to her chest for a moment, having finally reclaimed it from an individual who should never have had possession of it to begin with. And now he was dead, and a great weight felt like it had been lifted from her shoulders. Kneeling down at the ruined altar, beside the headless body of the man who had essentially destroyed her life, she permitted herself a moment to revel in the fact that now, finally, it was over.

-

Crouched atop the arched concrete beams that composed the roof of the spectacularly designed cathedral, Hunk had seen the young woman's victory through the stained glass that covered the ceiling. Admittedly, he cared little for the outcome of the battle and had no love for either of the two individuals who had until recently been fighting for their lives, but this conclusion made the task that he had been instructed to perform that much easier. He stood to his full height and cast a glance around at the nine other men congregated around him on the structure's upper level, all of them wearing the nondescript black uniforms of the Umbrella Special Forces. These men were professionals, hand-picked by the greying soldier especially for this mission, and he had the utmost faith in their ability to complete the tasks that had been assigned to them. Indeed, he had told each of them in turn that failure was not an option. Gripping the cable threaded through the loops on the harness that was secured about his waist, he non-verbally signalled for the other men to prepare their own climbing equipment, four of the anonymous troops checking the integrity of the rig that was carrying a large, steel coffin at a vertical position before ensuring that they themselves were secured. As was usually the case before any undertaking of this nature, the veteran Umbrella operative tilted his head back and took a deep breath, mentally girding himself for what was about to happen.

"Do it," he ordered flatly. There was a moment of silence and then a thunderous crash as the glass along the length of the roof shattered sequentially. The charges fixed to each of the horizontal stained windows detonated, the concussive waves those devices produced causing the brightly decorated windows to burst into shards and fall to the ground below in a twinkling rain of multicolour. The soldier stepped forward from the ledge, catching the wire in his hands and steadying himself as he made a rapid descent into the building's interior, falling alongside the broken pieces before his grip on the rope allowed them to hit the ground first. His team followed him immediately after, each of them executing a perfect jump as they made their way down with the coffin in tow.

Hunk's feet struck marble and he unbuckled his harness in one swift movement, swinging it aside to allow him the ease of movement that he needed. The redhead was on her feet watching the remainder of his unit make their landings as he approached her from behind and struck her in the back of the knee with the side of his boot, forcing her down in as gentle a fashion as he could manage. His hand moved to his belt, quickly removing a pair of thick, metal shackles from it and bringing them around to enclose her wrists. Thumbing the switch to lock them in place, he hooked his arm beneath the mechanical handcuffs that were holding her own in place and placed a hand on her shoulder in a bid to keep her restrained. She struggled to stand as his subordinates lowered the casket onto its back and opened the lid, though her battle with the now-decapitated executive had taken a lot out of her and she was unable to put up the fight she would otherwise have been capable of.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she yelled, wincing as the older man applied pressure to his hold around her limbs in an attempt to prevent her from escaping his grip.

"Stop squirming," he commanded, the fact that she recognised his voice more responsible for subduing her than the tone or words. Three of the soldiers hauled Wesker's corpse from where it was lying, headless, on the ground, and carried it over to the large box that they had brought with them, dropping it unceremoniously inside as the others calibrated instruments and checked gauges along the length of the device.

"So what_ are_ you doing?" she repeated, her voice somewhat more level, though not completely. The fact remained that they were Umbrella soldiers, people whom she had not exactly been making friends with over the course of the past couple of years, and even in her current condition she would be damned if they would be allowed to do something bad in her presence without her at least making a racket.

"Finishing him," the male informed her, "once and for all."

"But he's already dead," she pointed out, her eyes following one of the masked individuals as he moved out between the pews and scooped the blond's severed cranium from where it had been lying, carrying it back to its body and the group of men gathered around it.

"The G-virus ensures that he'll never truly die," the only known operative stated, watching as the crew began to make their final preparations around the open-topped casket, "even now he's regenerating; in hours, maybe even minutes, he'll be alive again. We can't be sure, but we think our only hope to stop him is to prevent him from doing that. If we cryogenically freeze him then he won't be able to complete his reconstitution and will never be allowed to reawaken. With any luck this will be the end of him."

Shakahnna did not reply, simply watching as the group surrounding Wesker's current resting place latched shut the lid of their device and continued to operate the various instruments lining its surface. A fine mist began to roll forth from the interior, drifting across the marble floor as the casket began to freeze on the inside. Before long the entire retinue accompanying the black-clad soldier had backed away from the metal box and watched as condensation crystallised along its length. There was silence among the assembled company as they watched with bated breath, all of them hoping that this was indeed the final solution that they thought it might be. Even the redhead realised that she too was holding in the inhalation she had taken, to the point where her lungs were straining for release and her blood was pounding in her ears, and she could feel the muscles of the man behind her become rigid as he did the same. After an excruciatingly long moment, there had still been no sudden and fatal repercussions for their actions and there was a united, very much relieved, exhalation.

The group gathered about the coffin once again and one of the men began to talk into a radio, ordering someone, most likely their method of transport, to report to the cathedral. In the aftermath of the successful completion of their objective, Hunk tapped at the number pad built into the smooth metal surface of the handcuffs encircling her wrists and removed them briskly. She sat down on her rear and began to caress the sore area where the bonds had clasped tightly to her skin, turning to face the male with a combination of gratitude and annoyance. "Thanks," she said, reasoning that she should register her joy at being free of restraints, though unwilling to forgive the fact that it was his fault she had been wearing them to begin with.

"As I told you, my orders did not concern you," he informed her, to which she tilted her head to the side. He had indeed told her that much, and though she had been sceptical at first, the behaviour of both himself and his team had essentially proven his words.

"We aren't friends, you know?" the female told him bluntly, glaring at the goggles that took up the place where his eyes would have been, "you're still Umbrella scum, and I don't see any reason why I should trust you, even if you did maybe help me out a little bit here."

"Your distrust is warranted," the stocky man responded, before straightening and unbuckling the straps at the back of his gasmask, removing the item and attaching it to his belt, before sitting down on the floor beside her. His face was craggy and well-defined, a line of scar tissue running the length of his right cheek and nestling amongst his unkempt facial hair. He was rough-cut and evidently unconcerned with his appearance, almost everything that Wesker had not been, aesthetically at least. "Now that the mission is over I have been ordered to inform you of the current situation," he continued, reaching into one of the pouches attached to his vest and removing a small, cardboard packet, "perhaps we can broker some measure of understanding, at least."

Popping the flap on the item in his hand, he withdrew a thin white stick from within between his lips, revealing it to be a carton of cigarettes. Without a moment's hesitation, he offered it to the woman sitting next to him and allowed her to take one for herself. She examined it suspiciously and once she was fairly certain that she was not being poisoned she placed it in her mouth. By this point he had already lit his own and was tugging gently on the filter, before turning to offer her the flame. Shaking her head, she appropriated the metal lighter from him and used it herself. Having someone else lighting her cigarettes reminded her too much of the blond now lying several yards away entombed in ice and steel.

"Okies, so what were you supposed to tell me?" she asked, passing him back the small, brass piece of paraphernalia and puffing away happily. He rolled his neck, before fixing her with eyes that were a striking blue, honest human pupils regarding her for the first time since she could remember, a welcome change from the other male's inhuman orbs and those fucking goggles the U.S.F troops were always wearing.

"Where to start," he murmured, wisps of grey floating from his mouth as he did so.


	13. Epilogue

**Epilogue: In Closing**

_One week later..._

The limousine rolled the length of the boulevard, its compliment of motorcycle-riding security personnel and bullet-proof black Lexus' forming a tight circle around it as it progressed through what was one of few bastions for the living in the war torn United States. Within the plush interior of the armoured vehicle sat the current head of that country, Jonathon Irving, a tall man of average build clad in black formal wear and an expression of bemusement on his handsome features. Sitting across from him was the Chairperson of Umbrella Incorporated, Sherry Spencer, who was talking animatedly in much the same way she had been doing for the last fifteen minutes, seemingly without pausing for breath. The President had lost focus on what exactly it was that she was saying, though he suspected that it had begun with some manner of apology. He could honestly say that he had never met a corporate executive who apologised as much as the young woman, particularly for things that were not her fault to begin with. While he detested the habits of other boardroom politicians, who took as little responsibility for their actions as possible and never, ever admitted liability, he was all too aware of the pitfalls of inviting such blame upon oneself. Indeed, had it not been for the support of the blonde sitting across from him then he would never have been able to live down the indiscretions of his predecessor, which he had made the mistake of taking responsibility for. His public admission of having been the one to dispatch an American agent onto foreign soil in search of the former President's daughter had led to him being ostracised from his party, though it had eventually proven to have saved his life, as that group had been eliminated in its entirety some time later through a number of apparently coincidental circumstances. He ran a hand through his dark hair idly as he watched the female before him gesticulating with her hands, shooting a glance at the bespectacled aide sitting beside her, who stared at him pointedly, evidently aware that he was not paying attention to her employer. It was then that he became aware of the abrupt end to the executive's monologue and realised that she was waiting for him to reply.

"That may well be the case, Lady Spencer, but it wasn't why I asked you to this meeting," he said lamely, doing his best to make the response seem plausible. She seemed to accept what he had said, however, and listened intently. That was another thing she did differently from most people in her position; she actually listened to what was being said, and could probably regurgitate it back word for word a week later if need be. "Primarily I wanted to discuss your company's help with my Administration," he told her, to which she nodded earnestly, encouraging him to continue, "I'm new to this game, and I know you haven't been at it yourself for very long, but I have enough experience to know how things work. I know that Umbrella will expect concessions to be made for its contributions to my campaign, and I'm afraid that I'm going to have to leave them disappointed. As this country's new leader I have to prioritise the welfare of the people over that of big business, and though I will understand if the corporation wishes to withdraw its funding, I will not be swayed on the matter."

Sherry stared at him blankly for a moment and then sat back in her seat. "Okay," she said eventually, smiling at him.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, frowning. She tilted her head to the side curiously, as though wondering what it was that he needed clarification on.

"Well, you wanted to help the people in the country, right?" the heir-apparent to the Spencer fortune responded, "well, that's what I want too, and they never say it but I'm sure it's what the fellows on the board think as well. So I don't see why continuing to lend you money would be a problem if we all have the same goal. I mean, that's not going to cause problems, is it? I don't want to upset anyone by doing the wrong thing."

At this point she turned to look at the woman sitting next to her, who paused her annotations in the journal in front of her and moved the hand holding her pen to adjust the wire frames perched on the bridge of her nose. She shook her head briskly, and the younger female turned back, smiling once again.

"Very well," the male replied after a moment's hesitation, before reaching to the briefcase set upon the seat behind him and opening it, withdrawing several sheets of paper that had been stapled in their upper-left corner, "in that case I have some documents to that effect that I would like to ask you to sign. The first details measures to have the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service decommissioned and another, state-sponsored group set up in its place to eliminate the threat posed by the zombies and re-establish order in the country, and that your company will use the money currently used in the upkeep of the U.B.C.S to fund that second organisation. Secondly I have a contract that will prohibit Umbrella from any further research into Biological Weaponry and legally binds them to divulge any research into a cure or vaccination for the Tyrant virus so that it can be turned over to the state ready for mass production and distribution to the citizens of this country and the world. These are the necessary first steps to rebuilding this country and ensuring that..."

He was about to continue, hoping to sell the benefits of the contracts in an effort to stop her from backing out on what she had previously been saying about helping the people of the United States. Most in her position would have made many non-committal statements, told him that they would review the documents in due course and then probably lose them in the trash once they were no longer under pressure to sign them. Lady Spencer's naivety was likely to work in his favour, and though he was loath to take advantage of such innocence, the people he would be serving as President needed these matters to be resolved. He was interrupted, however, when she took the documents from his outstretched hand, scanned them cursorily and interjected. "Do you have a pen?" she asked him, to which he started and was momentarily dumbstruck. Her personal assistant passed her a gilt fountain pen, which she accepted graciously and began to scribble her signature on each of the stapled sheets.

"Erm, thank you, Lady Spencer," Irving said, still looking exceptionally perplexed at her actions, "I must say that I was not expecting such forthcoming."

"These will help people, won't they?" she queried, looking up at him with a momentarily flustered expression, almost as though she was worried he would tell her that they wouldn't. She seemed to relax when he nodded, however, and returned to scrawling an embellished form of her name on each piece of paper resting upon her knee. "Making the world a better, brighter place; its been Umbrella's motto for so long, it only makes sense to do the right thing," she muttered, seemingly to herself, as she continued to write, "don't you think so too?"

"Of course," the dark-haired male responded, "I was merely surprised by your willingness to sign such legally binding contracts. Your peers on the Board of Directors would likely have feigned interest in their contents but never so much as addressed the issues contained within them."

She tensed suddenly, the pen clasped in her fingers skittering across the page in front of her as the jolt surprised even her. "Oh no!" she exclaimed, dismayed for some inexplicable reason and turning to address the woman sitting beside her, "did I do something wrong? Have I been unprofessional again? This is just so like me; you would think I would realise when I'm doing it by now."

The grey-clad brunette who filled the position as Lady Spencer's aide had already turned her attention to the younger girl even as her sudden embarrassment began and placed a reassuring hand upon her left shoulder, drawing her attention away from the papers that had caused her sudden agitation. The aristocrat had turned a shade of deep crimson at her perceived faux pas and she was momentarily flustered. Fortunately, after a moment the colour in her cheeks began to return to normal and she began to look less self-conscious of what she had momentarily confused for unprofessional behaviour, though she was still red at having had such a panicked moment. The assistant, who seemed almost to double as something of a caretaker for her employer, was explaining the situation regarding the articles that she was signing, evidently assuaging her concerns in regards to those particular documents. Irving looked on with an expression of the utmost bewilderment.

"I had simply meant to tell you that I find you a much more agreeable partner in these matters than your subordinates, Lady Spencer, I was not insinuating that your own behaviour was unprofessional," he informed her once he was certain that she was not likely to react poorly to his words once again, "if anything I was commenting on the lack of moral fortitude that they have in comparison with yourself. They would be unwilling to take on these responsibilities."

"Oh, they're not bad people," the blonde replied, scribbling her stylised mark on the last of the sheets and handing him back the bundle with a flourish, "they're just a little ... misguided, you know?"

"Certainly," he said, wondering if he should point out that the men and women that composed the Umbrella Board of Directors did indeed know what the right thing was, they just chose not to do it because they were motivated solely by avarice. Unfortunately, her earnest blue eyes and rounded, youthful face made doing that comparable with informing a five year old girl on Christmas Eve that Santa Claus did not exist. He turned his eyes to the contracts he was clasping and winced when he noticed that she signed her name with little hearts. Trying his best not to allow the horror to register on his face, he placed them back into his briefcase and closed the lid, ignoring the images of curly S's and loopy E's that had been burned into his mind's eye.

"This is my stop," she stated cheerfully, as the limousine and its escort pulled into the gravel driveway of a large, white building, stopping to allow the young woman and her employee to disembark in front of the wide, stone staircase that led up to the structure's front doors. A brass plaque mounted above the door announced that the location was the "Lovette Centre for Neural Research". The President regarded the place through the tinted windows of the vehicle, pondering the purpose of the facility considering how ambiguously titled it was, but was broken from his reverie when the administrative assistant opened the rear door of the passenger compartment and stepped out.

"Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Lady Spencer," he said, bowing his head in a display of gratitude. She beamed across at him, evidently hoping that he wouldn't notice that she was flushed, though considering that her change in skin tone was as prominent as it had been previously there was little chance of that.

"I'm happy to help," she told him, turning her body towards the door and pulling herself along the seat towards the opening in the car's chassis in a manner that was most undignified, before vanishing out into the sunlight to join her subordinate. He frowned to himself, wondering whether he should be worried or amused by her nature, and elected instead to simply ignore the matter, instead turning his attention to the work that lay ahead of him now that he had gained her cooperation. Or at least, he would have done, had she not ducked back into the interior compartment, smiling brightly, and exclaimed, "thank you for the ride!"

Before he could respond that it was quite alright and that no thanks were necessary, she vanished and the door was slammed shut. He sat for a moment, thinking back over their discussion, and then pinched the bridge of his nose when he spotted her standing outside, waving energetically at his window. "I am concerned for the future of big business when girls like her can become the leaders of multi-million dollar conglomerates," he muttered to himself, watching as her evidently exasperated aide almost had to resort to physicality in order to move the young woman inside the building that was their destination. He watched as she disappeared through the doors at the top of the stairs and mused on that statement for a moment, before smiling slightly.

She was honest and decent to a fault; that really wasn't a bad thing at all.

-

Any casual observer that had watched the scene outside would have been most surprised to view the actions of the young Lady Spencer now that she was in a more private setting. Her back straightened and her head lifted, the tailored black suit that she was wearing, which had previously seemed ill-fitting, pulling taut around her as she assumed the upright, confident posture of an individual who belonged in such attire. Her hands ceased their compulsive fidgeting and came to rest at her sides, swinging gently as she strode into the entrance hall of the hospice, though her smile remained posed upon her lips; that much had not been pretence. The transition in her behaviour from nervous and uncomfortable youth to cool and composed aristocrat had taken mere seconds after her entrance through the front doors. Her assistant followed in her wake, showing no concern for the woman's sudden change in demeanour. It was something that she was used to witnessing, only because she was trustworthy with the information that the supposedly demure blonde was actually not as naïve or guileless as she first appeared. She was far from it, in fact.

"A good man, that one," the young female announced flatly, evidently addressing the other individual who was following her.

"Yes, ma'am," the grey-clad subordinate agreed, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear so that it was in line with the remainder of her tresses as per her rigidly neat aesthetic, "Umbrella marked him years ago as easier to discredit than buy, so we can be assured that he is, indeed, a good man. He stood a better opportunity of becoming this country's leader than any other, and the company could not afford to have an idealist and charismatic orator such as him attempt to win the favour of the citizenry. It would have been exceptionally bad for business. He seems almost perfect for your intentions, though."

"I do hate being deceptive to good men," the blonde commented.

"You are merely doing what is necessary to ensure the well-being of this country and its people," the brunette assured her, apparently having not relinquished the role of personal motivator in spite of the youthful businesswoman's otherwise radically altered attitude, "he is a man of considerable integrity and will no doubt act as your avatar in rebuilding this nation."

"Handsome as well," the noble noted wistfully, her employee struggling momentarily to divine whether she was being entirely serious or not, before giving up altogether. "Please inform Doctor Lovette that Lady Spencer wishes to see him," she intoned, giving the receptionist a genial nod as she passed through the portal that would take her into the corridors of the aforementioned male's facility. Now that she had replaced Wesker as the sole benefactor of that particular concern it was her prerogative to come and go as she pleased.

Various people wearing white surgical scrubs wandered the hallways here and there was little to tell between the patients and staff such was the freedom given to those sequestered to the kindly neurologist's care. Any particularly observant individuals, such as the fair-haired girl herself, would have noticed the semi-circle of small, circular scars behind the right ear of some of the men and women. Anyone else, however, would have been at a loss. Those that saw her approach greeted her fondly and she did the same for them, smiling warmly and using their first names as though she knew and cared for each of them. Occasionally she would pause in her step to exchange a few heartfelt words with those who cared to engage her in anything more than a simple salutation. Her interest was not feigned in the same manner as her former Chief Executive Officer's, nor was she merely looking for a method by which to manipulate those that she spoke to. It was simply in her nature to treat friendly faces with kindness, and she had a wealth of attention to lavish upon the denizens of the research institute in particular.

"You have messages, Lady Spencer," the aide informed her, moving alongside her as they walked. Sherry nodded in acknowledgement and permitted the dark-haired female to continue. "The Board of Directors has sent a collective communiqué asking you to appraise them of your progress with the project to regenerate the U.S.," she stated, reading from the Personal Data Assistant clasped against the open pages of her journal as she organised her employer's busy schedule at the same time, "they have questions regarding the projected profit margins for the years leading up to the country's full restoration."

"They'll simply have to get used to the idea that we'll be making a loss," the girl said casually, beaming at a white-clad passer-by who waved to catch her attention, "I've put too much work into this project to have them set me back by quibbling over a million dollars here and there. Perhaps I can impress upon them that this is an investment, and that the regeneration will eventually lead to profit for decades to come, but it's a pity they won't just see things my way. I certainly wish that my Grandfather had chosen less greedy partners with which to do business."

"With all due respect, my lady, would it not be easier to simply do away with them?" the ever-practical administrator suggested without the slightest hint of moral consideration, born entirely from her utter distaste for the group of individuals she was referring to.

"Then I would be no better than Wesker," her superior pointed out, "and besides, you never know, I may win them over in due course. If not I will simply buy their share in the company and send them on their way. But I appreciate your frankness on the matter and it pays to have the issue considered from two perspectives. Regardless, I will conference with them later today; I won't be travelling back to Seattle tonight just on their account."

"I will have a suite booked for you, ma'am," the brunette responded, making a note to that effect on her page, "Hunk has also asked me to pass on his best wishes, and notes that his mission has been completed successfully."

"Oh good, he had me worried for a little while," she replied, placing a hand to her chest in order to illustrate her relief, "but I suppose that is so very like him, to get the job done. And did he mention anything about that girl I've been hearing so much about?"

Reviewing the report cursorily, the older woman nodded as she located the section pertaining to the female in question. "Apparently she has been housed temporarily in a barracks near Wesker's estate and is undergoing treatment for the injuries she suffered, which are reportedly quite severe," she recounted, "Hunk notes that she seemed to accept his word on our intentions but has told him she will remain sceptical until we follow through. What did you wish to have done with her?"

"Oh, well, make her comfortable and see that she gets everything she needs while her treatment is ongoing, and then, I don't know, release her if that's what she wants," the heiress said, waving through a window that opened out onto a grassy courtyard and receiving more than a dozen reciprocations from the patients and orderlies standing or sitting on the enclosed field, "or offer her a job. I realise that working for Umbrella probably isn't her idea of honest employment, but this is a new dawn, a new company altogether. The world will have a place for people like her, people who are willing to put all that they have to the causes that they believe in, providing those causes are honest. Whatever she decides, ensure that her demands are met and facilitated. And what about dear Uncle Albert?"

"As per your instructions he was placed in cryogenic suspension and relocated to the remote island facility," the chocolate-haired female continued, regarding the correspondence before her and summarising the Umbrella agent's customarily detailed account, "there his casket was integrated into the fusion reactor built solely for the purpose of powering his stasis. The technicians confirmed that there were no faults in the freezing process and sealed him inside; the instructions we gave them were very specific, no one is to even set foot inside the facility without causing the reactor to detonate, and we ensured that there were no backdoors left by the architects or system designers. Our warnings to any governments with waters in that area were explicit; we told them that should anyone disturb that site then it would vaporise the surroundings in a three mile radius. Several have objected to such a dangerous structure, but it is doubtful that they will pursue their grievances any further, given that they do not understand the purpose of the installation. Hunk oversaw the matter himself and has included in his report that everything seemed to go as planned."

"I'm glad, and I'm sure that if Uncle James says that everything went as we intended then it did exactly that," the younger woman responded, her faith in her bodyguard and family friend absolute, "was that all?"

"As far as I can see, ma'am," the other female told her, adjusting her spectacles and poring over the list of various memorandums and other articles listed upon the palmtop resting on the pages of her journal, "all that requires your immediate attention at least."

"Excellent, I will deal with the rest later, I think," Sherry stated, rounding another corner in the expansive facility and spying a lab-coat wearing male with receding grey hair standing with his back turned to her as he stood speaking with one of the white-clad denizens of his facility. Her expression split into a wide grin and she lifted her hands to cup her mouth, before calling out "Uncle Adrian", ensuring to elongate each syllable. When he turned to acknowledge the call he was already smiling, watching her as she bore down on him and thrust herself forwards to hug into his chest, wrapping her arms under his and around his back before lacing them there. He chuckled for a moment, looking down at her fondly, before reciprocating the motion. The dark-haired assistant approached at her usual pace, rolling her eyes in good-natured exasperation and exchanging a sympathetic glance with the scientist. Even with her sudden transformation into a respectable and mature businesswoman, there were still aspects of the young and impressionable girl that bled through to make her seem entirely inappropriate as the corporation's chairperson.

"Wonderful to see you as always, my dear," Doctor Lovette greeted, before turning to the auburn-haired woman dressed in white whom he had been addressing previously, "might we continue this later?"

"No problem," the only one of the three females to be a patient at the facility said, nodding reassuringly and glancing at the mop of blonde hair that was pressed against the older male's torso with a smile, "I'll catch you later, Doc."

With that, the individual turned and moved away, leaving the institute's overseer and leading physician to entertain his guests. Sherry was eventually coaxed out of her embrace and set about adjusting her ruffled suit and tresses. Her other, more demure self, might have muttered a thousand apologies for that outburst, but in her current state she could see no reason why those would be necessary. Here was a man whom she had not seen in quite some time, and for whom she possessed considerable affection in that they were akin to family; in her opinion there was nothing to keep her from expressing that fondness openly.

"How are you, Uncle?" she asked eagerly, beaming at him as she did so.

"Quite well, thank you," the centre's director informed her, "I was informed of your arrival and was looking forward to welcoming you, though I received a correspondence from you several days ago that I wished to speak with you about."

"Oh no, I'm sorry," the blonde exclaimed with a sudden gasp, reverting instantaneously to her former self, "I mean, I had wanted to tell you for so long about what was going on, but I couldn't do that with the situation being as fragile as it was, and I know that's no excuse, but as soon as everything came to a head I wanted to sit down and explain it all to you, but everything's just been so busy organising the Board members and appointing the new President and transferring all of the money from T-virus research into Daylight production, and its just been such a mess. So I sent you a letter, and I know that's just so very formal and its not really a substitute for the opportunity to just sit down and talk, but it was the only way I could think of to really let you know that it mattered what you thought and that I hoped you didn't hate me for using you like I did and now..."

She paused when the older man finally placed his hands upon her shoulders in a reassuring motion, looking up at him with her bottom lip trembling as her monologue came to a halt. He smiled and shook his head in a display of fondness. "Do not concern yourself, Sherry, it is really nothing to worry about," he told her, "I have always been an easy man to be deceived, if not because I do not see the motives of those around me then because I wish to see the best in those motives when there may be no good at all. I am glad that unfortunate tendency towards naivety of mine has yielded a positive result for once."

"Then..." the female began, her eyes glistening as she tried not to let them water, "you don't hate me?"

"Of course not, my girl," he assured, squeezing her shoulders earnestly, which seemed to have a resoundingly positive impact on her. She heaved a sigh of relief and lifted her hand to gently rub at the corners of her eyes. Fortunately, as she was not wearing any cosmetics, she was not smudging mascara with that action.

"I think everything may be working out for the best then," she commented to the room in general rather than just to him, "I really am so sorry though. I really didn't want to deceive anyone, let alone you of all people."

"You are forgiven; I understand the necessity behind your actions and appreciate that you are being so forthright with me in the aftermath," the neurologist told her, removing his hands from her form and placing them at his side, "I must say that I am quite awed at the web of intrigue you have spun over the last year, however. It seems like such an incredible undertaking; to ally with the President in the reformation of S.T.A.R.S merely as a means to distract Wesker from your machinations and finally bring about the opportunity to wrest control of the company from him, and in the process, seal him away so that he may never hurt another person ever again. It is even more impressive a feat now that I look back upon it and realise how ignorant I was of what was happening around me, while you orchestrated this situation in its entirety. Had you not encouraged me to approach the Board with my concerns about Albert then this final sequence of events would never have been realised."

"If it had been my choice then I would not have involved President Graham or the men and women from S.T.A.R.S in this, but even on his deathbed my Grandfather still considered the end to justify the means and at the time I didn't consider myself ready to take on the responsibilities he entrusted me with," the chairwoman of Umbrella Incorporated said with a degree of regret evident in her voice, "I wish I had taken on the tasks sooner and found my own way; it might have saved so many lives. Still, Wesker has been removed from power and I have been placed in a position to do some good in the world, though admittedly unbeknownst to my colleagues on the Board of Directors."

"I believe it would be best if they continued to believe themselves the ones to have signed Albert's death warrant, it should keep them in line for some time," he replied, "though I am surprised to hear that the late Lord Spencer was involved in this affair, my dear. I had always believed him to be quite fond of Albert."

"He considered Wesker to be his greatest mistake," the blonde informed him solemnly, "he told me as much before he died. He encouraged me to use his apparent grudge against the S.T.A.R.S organisation to distract him long enough that I would be able to make preparations for him to be removed from the picture. That task seems to have been achieved, though admittedly in a rather unforeseen manner. I can't bring myself to order his destruction, but he may as well be dead for all the chance he has of escaping. And as much as it pains me to say it, I believe that may be the only way to curb his rampantly destructive nature and build a better place for those that yet remain. If this world is to have peace then Wesker cannot be a part of it."

"Yes, I believe you may be correct," Adrian agreed, nodding, "a pity, certainly, though I wonder if you would mind telling me how you became aware of Albert's nature to begin with."

"Grandfather told me, and I suspect that he may have known for quite some time that Wesker was a terrible human being; I dread to think of what might have transpired had he not told me of what was occurring in his dying moments," the ebony-clad executive told him, before gesturing to the older woman standing beside her, "I suspect that even with that intuition I would have been unable to successfully oppose his administration without the help of Jemima here."

"I believe I remember you," the neurologist mused, fixing the grim-faced administrator with an appraising look, "were you not once a member of Albert's staff?"

"He killed my brother's fiancée almost two years ago," she replied bluntly, evidently feeling an overwhelming amount of bitterness in regards to that particular recollection, "the three of us were very close. When he joined S.T.A.R.S during its reformation, I had been working for Umbrella and had found myself in his employ. Originally I had intended to simply betray him to the organisation, but he made it abundantly clear very quickly that it would be a losing battle for them. I was unsure how to proceed until he introduced me to Lady Spencer and attempted to use me to influence her. She explained her situation to me and..."

"And we became the best of friends," Sherry announced, placing an arm around the shoulders of her secretary and smiling happily. The dour expression on the brunette's face was almost enough to make the lab coat-wearing physician chuckle, though he suppressed the impulse when he realised that the bespectacled female was not amused in the slightest.

"I relayed Wesker's instructions to Lady Spencer, and fed him false information about her own activities, allowing her to take sufficient steps to remove him from the picture," she continued, before the hardness of her features faded slightly, "but with my brother now dead and my original task having been completed, I am not averse to the thought of continuing in my current capacity."

"I must say that I am glad to hear that, my dear," Doctor Lovette responded with a smile, "Lady Spencer has a lot of work ahead of her and I am certain she could use all of the assistance you could possibly render. The more honest and decent people she gathers about her, the more likely she is to succeed in her intentions."

"I'm glad to have you with me, Jemima," the blonde asserted, moving her second arm around the other woman's torso and embracing her tightly. In spite of her composed nature, the dark-haired female was unable to prevent herself from flushing slightly at the sudden, overwhelming affection that was being conveyed.

"I was wondering, my girl," the male began, once the younger individual that he was addressing had released her subordinate, "whether you had intended to visit your sister while you were here. Her treatment has reached its completion and she has been asking after you for several weeks now."

"Oh yes, Uncle, of course," the youth insisted, almost forcefully in her happiness at having been reminded of something, and someone, that evidently meant the world to her, "I would have visited her long ago had this matter not required my immediate attention, but I am glad to hear that she is better now, and that I can speak with her again after so long. I should make my apologies and let her know what I've been doing while I've been away."

"I am sure she will appreciate that," Adrian said, with a nod.

"I wasn't aware that you had a sister, Lady Spencer," the aide commented, adjusting her spectacles upon the bridge of her nose with an air of vexation.

"Does it surprise you that I have secrets, Jemima?" the Umbrella chairwoman asked, momentarily adopting a sly upturn to her smile that was as much an admonition to never underestimate her as it was simply a moment of self-satisfaction at being able to surprise the otherwise exceptionally self-possessed older female.

"She is waiting for you in her usual room," the greying man told her, to which she beamed gratefully and turned to head in the direction of the suite he had informed her of, knowing its location by heart already. Even with her upright posture and sharply-creased business suit it was evident in her behaviour that there was still something of the little girl she had previously been, and at current she seemed an amalgamation of the professional executive and inexperienced heiress that made up her dual façade for holding power. Her elders watched her move down the corridor and out of sight, a noticeable spring in her step.

"I worry," Jemima Grey uttered after a moment of silence, a sentiment that earned her the attention of the male standing beside her, who regarded her curiously. She turned her framed eyes to confront his, giving him a sternly serious look that was usually never absent from her features, but which seemed to labour under whatever it was that was currently on her mind. "If people ever learn that she is not as naïve as she seems," she continued, "then they may try to remove her forcefully."

"Then all we can do is offer her our support and assistance where it is necessary, and never tell another soul about this secret that we have been entrusted with," he replied, his voice taking on a sombre edge, "beyond that, it is all in her hands now."

-

In spite of its simplicity, the room occupied by Sherry's sister could not have been distinguished as the chamber of an institutionalised woman based upon its appearance alone. The single bed was neatly made with soft, red sheets and the earthy brown of the carpet was luxurious beneath bare feet. There was a desk in the opposite corner laden with scraps of paper and a vast array of writing implements. Nailed to the wall beside it was a notice board, on which was pinned dozens of coloured and monochrome sketches, realised with unmistakable talent, in such detail it would make an experienced artisan tug at his hair in frustration. Drawings of yawning landscapes filled with craggy ashen peaks topped with snow, gorgeous green forests spanning their edges and sparkling blue streams weaving amongst them, lit by dazzling sunlight from bright orbs that drifted gently amid feathery, insubstantial clouds hung alongside smaller depictions of single objects such as trees, animals, insects and other human beings, their predominant theme always vitality. The trees were always in bloom, the butterflies always alight with colour, and the people always smiling and happy. Fresh, golden light streamed in through the bay windows, swathes of it segmented by the square panes softly illuminating the sole, dark-haired occupant as she sat upon a leather couch at the room's centre, clad in a casual white t-shirt and jeans, her straight, chestnut tresses tied back in a simple ponytail. Her legs were folded under her and her head was bowed over a particularly complex drawing of a cherry tree, its branches producing a flourish of pink blossoms that were drifting on the wind to float atop the surface of a lake, whose surface was crystal azure. She chewed compulsively on her thumbnail as she painstakingly coloured each individual petal, so engrossed in her work that she did not notice the presence of a second person in her sanctum.

"Claire!" the young Lady Spencer called cheerfully, drawing the older woman's attention from the task at hand. The brunette looked up, smiling broadly as she noticed that her younger sister had finally come to visit her again.

"Sis," she said, setting down her sketch pad and pencils, her determination to complete her artwork now completely forgotten. Hopping up from her seat, the patient closed the distance between them quickly and wrapped her arms around the blonde's torso, hugging her close. As the shorter of the two, Sherry lifted her own limbs to lace around her sibling's lower back.

"It's so good to see you," the youth told her, resting her head against the other female's chest and closing her eyes contentedly.

"Sherry?" the woman asked, frowning slightly at the tone of the girl's voice, before drawing away slightly and looking down at her face, watching as two beads of water gently traced the rounded curve of her cheeks, "why are you crying?"

"I just ... missed you so much," she responded, pulling herself close again and prompting the more mature of the pair to place an affectionate hand to the back of her head to gently cradle her as they continued to embrace. After a moment, they separated once again, the fair-haired aristocrat smiling up at the room's owner and sniffing back her happy tears.

For the individual who had once been Sherry Birkin, there were no true family members left. Her father and mother had both been taken by the disaster in Raccoon City, and her Grandfather had been poisoned by Wesker in order to thrust her into a position of responsibility that he deemed her unready for and make her open to his subtle manipulations. Those that remained were family in name only; Wesker, her father's adoptive brother, Adrian, a man who had been instrumental in her education and in helping her retain her innocence in spite of what her Grandfather had attempted to teach her, and Hunk who had served as her guardian since her early teens. Though she and Claire were not related by blood either there was no one whom she was closer to and the blonde considered it extremely fortunate that they had been reunited even after all this time. Had this institute's owner not appropriated the dark-haired woman from the Umbrella prison where she had been held for several long years then it was unlikely that they would ever have seen each other again. It had hurt the young heiress immensely to know that Wesker had brought about the demise of that female's own family as well, and she had asked Doctor Lovette to do his best to relieve her of those bitter and hurtful memories. He had taken an extra step and altered her vision of the past to include Sherry as her younger sister, something which had caused the both of them an untold degree of happiness; despite the falsity of that relationship the affection between the two of them was very much real.

"I missed you too," Claire told her, leaning forward and placing her lips gently to the girl's forehead, "why don't you sit down and tell me what you've been getting up to."

"Oh, well..." the Umbrella chairwoman replied, as she allowed herself to be steered to the couch, using her right hand to wipe away the streaks of damp from her face, "its just been so busy recently, people to talk to, paperwork to do, plans to oversee. I have some really good ideas once everything's running smoothly again: fair trade negotiations for the third world, minimum wage for our workers in those countries and negotiations with other companies to ensure that they take on the same standards. I've been put in a position that lets me do things like that, and it just seems silly not to if I can."

"You've grown up, sis," the brunette commented, smiling fondly, "I'm proud of you."

The girl flushed, placing her hands to her cheeks almost as though she were trying to hide it from the other woman, if only because the compliment had made her feel self-conscious. "I'm so glad," she asserted, before moving her fingers to clasp those of her sibling's right hand, "you wouldn't ever let anything happen to me would you, Claire?"

"Of course not," her companion insisted, gripping the bundle of digits between them with her free hand tightly to express the sincerity of her words, "I mean, I'm sorry I got sick and everything, and was away for so long while I got better, but now I'm alright and I can look after you from now on. Hey, Raccoon City, remember? I came to save you then and I can do it again."

"You did," the blonde agreed, before turning her body gently to the side and lying down to place her head gently on her sister's lap, kicking off her designer shoes and curling her feet under her on the couch, as was something of a custom for them, "you were so cool."

"I wouldn't let anything happen to my sis," she stated, stroking the flaxen tresses cascading across her upper thighs in a motion that caused the younger female to sigh happily, relaxing now that she was in as safe a place as she could imagine.

"Thank you," Lady Spencer whispered, and closed her eyes.

Eyes that were cat-like slits ringed with red and gold.


End file.
